#have an appearance which is deemed as “strange” or “menacing”

[askdannysroleswapau]

How would Gumball react to this image? :)

(assuming that you mean this in a /lh way)

i think Voidball would be flattered, considering most of their characterization is inspired by Megamind (and Nimona, to some extent) who would consider something like this a compliment

in fact, this sorta reminds me of that scene in Roxanne's apartment with all the hanging scraps of paper where she finally solves the big mystery... god i love Megamind its so good you should go watch it. why has this blog just become me telling you guys to go watch movies recently. what is wrong with me (its The Mucus)

[antiquelic]

thoughts on opera ghoulette.

a water ghoulette. it is unknown when she was summoned or who summoned her exactly, it was some time during the reign of papa ii she appeared. found naked alongside a river, without glamour, singing a haunting song in a strange tongue. naturally she was brought to the clergy before she was discovered by outside forces.

like most ghouls, opera often uses glamour. standing roughly 6 ft 2 in glamoured and 6 ft 10 in unglamoured her appearance can be defined to a ghost or a bride. in either form she is pale with ginger - red hair that falls to her waist, though often hidden beneath a veil. long - limbed with spider - like finger, slim and toned body with wide hips, and large, piercing blue eyes that are unnerving regardless of her form. unglamoured, her skin is grey above and white underneath like a great white shark with a tail mixed between a lions though at the end it is shaped like a shark. her horns twist and twirl upwards like the horns of an addax, with webbed fingers and toes. under her ribcage she has a set of gills and rows upon rows of sharp, predatory teeth. her true form is menacing and predatory.

she is called opera because of her singing vocals. though people would argue the name siren would be fitting, she prefers the name opera. it's a music genre she enjoys listening to because of its calming nature and actively sings alongside operas / musicals / softer songs. her hearing is senstivite to louder music.

does not shy away from hunting. she is an apex predator, vicious and hungry. on land she is slightly slower but still dangerous, in the water she is an excellent swimmer. often outswimming her fellow water ghouls. she is the most likely to pull any humans into the lake to either devour them or scare them.

to the emeritus line, she is obedient, polite and helpful. towards other ghouls she's often mischievous and playful. but to any siblings or others outside these two groups: she will be a bit of a bully. there is no room for weakness in her eyes and she isn't afraid to say that to siblings.

opera's job varies from backing vocals in musical performances, a handmaiden ( usually to any lady emeritus), and a carer towards the children of the clergy. she has a soft spot for children which pushes her to extreme lengths to protect the young, often lashing out towards anyone she deems a threat towards "her children".

during the film rite here rite now, she is the ghoulette providing the vocals in if you have ghosts. this is her first live performance outside the ministry, hence why she heavily veils her face from the crowds and cameras.

[jungkookiebus]

The Lord’s Kiss | jjk

Genre: supernatural x smut x period piece Pairing: vampire!jungkook x reader Rating: 18+ Word Count: 5.1k Warnings: blood play, fingering, mentions of death, stockholm syndrome? Summary: You shouldn’t have stayed in the village for as long as you did. The woods are dark as you try to make your way home, only to be walking in circles. Is it convenience or fate that a stranger is now offering you help? With him, you seem to step into another reality all together.

The night was cold and the air bit at your skin. Ice cracked beneath your feet as you walked along the path towards home. It clung to the dead leaves and grass that still sprouted in spots through the dirt. The woods around you were dark and ominous, quickening your pace. The lantern you held swayed in your hand. The flame inside created a macabre dance of shadows against the trees that had you jumping when paired with the snap of a twig. It had taken you longer in town than you had anticipated, so when you hit the trailhead back home the sun was already dipping below the horizon. Your family would probably soon worry about you. Pulling your shawl even tighter, you hoisted the basket you were carrying a little higher and tried to walk even faster; even to the point that it was uncomfortable. The lantern swayed on your arm and casted light against twin trees that grew together from the roots. Didn’t you pass that tree earlier? A large, moss covered boulder came into sight and you knew you had been here before. Were you going in circles somehow? You started to stumble as you grew more desperate to find the right path home. You really should have started home before the sun went down and now you were in danger of running into a wolf or worse a—

“What do we have here?” The voice echoed all around you and seemed to be coming from every direction. It wove through the trees before getting closer until it almost whispered in your ear. Startled, you dropped the basket and the lantern which went tumbling down the path before burning out.

“No, no, no, no,” you whispered as you dropped to your knees and crawled towards the lantern. You were an arm’s length away when someone stepped into the path in front of you. You could tell by the shift in the air around you and you froze in place. Night birds and insects silenced their songs with only the wind to remind you that you were in the forest. You heard the telltale sound of the lantern being picked up and seconds later it lit with fire once more. Shiny boots stood in front of you and as your eyes traveled upwards you noticed the person was dressed in expertly tailored clothes.

“Let me help you.” His voice was smooth as cream, but as menacing and sharp as a knife’s edge.

You shrank back when he extended his hand and he laughed. Looking up, you saw that his smile did not quite reach his eyes which made you even the more hesitant. The lantern cast harsh shadows on his face, and he was both beautiful and terrifying. His dark hair was swept off his forehead and his skin was eerily translucent. Eyes as black as pitch stared back at you, but the lantern light seemed to be absorbed into their depths. Your heart quickened and his brow furrowed.

“You’re lost, little one.”

You knew you were lost and all you wanted to do was get home.

“Why don’t you come with me?” His voice had a strange airy quality to it as if he were trying to come off as gentle, but you knew he was anything but.

“I-I know my way h-home,” you said weakly.

He fully smiled now, and his teeth glinted as he held the lantern a little higher. Clicking his teeth, he kneeled to your level smoothly, one knee in the dirt and ice. He leaned forward, coming dangerously close to your face but you were too afraid to move. You had never met another person whose skin was not marred by the sun or work, but up close, his had no blemishes or scars.

“It doesn’t seem that way.”

Unfortunately, he was right. At night, the woods deemed themselves entirely different than the day and you were hopelessly lost. What were your options? Continue roaming the woods, possibly getting attacked by some wild animal or dying in the elements or—you could take your chances with a stranger. Your breath came out shakily and clouded in front of you. The temperature was dropping.

“Are you scared?” he breathed.

You were suddenly aware than when he spoke his breath did not cloud like yours, yet his outward appearance seemed normal. The feeling he gave off, however, was not. Your fingertips began to numb as the night air descended upon you two fold. What choice did you have?

“I’m not afraid.” Maybe, if you seemed strong, he wouldn’t harm you. Thoughts of your family raced through your head. They were probably wondering where you were if not already looking for you.

He held out his hand once more and you looked at it hesitantly. This decision could quite possibly be your last and it made your body all at once hot and cold. Tentatively, you reached out and placed your hand in his. His skin was cold as ice, but you deemed it because of the weather. He smiled again and stood up, pulling you with him.

“Shall we go, then?” He looked at you as if you had a choice, but you knew you did not.

You simply nodded and he let go of your hand in favor of leading the way. The path seemed familiar and strange all at once the further you walked into the forest. It was still silent save for the wind and an ominous chill ran through your body. Never had you heard it so quiet.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s not much further.”

His footsteps were silent where yours crunched along the ice still. You swallowed thickly and tried to keep your head up as you followed him. As if by some sort of magic, the trees seemed to part in front of you and he stepped out onto a rocky overhang that looked down into a valley you had never seen before. Was that always there? Surely you would have seen it before. Nestled amongst the trees stood a stately stone manor with every window lit from within. You stood, shocked, on the ledge and the wind whipped around your skirts and tangled your hair around your face.

“Let us go before you fall ill.”

He struck you out of your astonishment as he stood near a path leading downwards, lantern still swaying in his hand. You followed him and within half an hour you were stood before the large home. You had never seen anything so extravagant before, having lived close to the small village and never ventured into bigger cities. Beyond its high, stone walls stood a decrepit old church that looked as if it had not been used in many, many years. Ice hung dangerously sharp from the roof tiles and the heavy wooden door looked impossible to open. He walked up to a smaller door that was set into one of the large two and opened it. Warm light spilled out into the dark night and inside you saw an impressive hall with two lit fireplaces.

“Are you the lord of this house?” you asked as you froze, looking inside. You were suddenly afraid of trespassing. There were mentions of wars in distant lands and you were afraid to find yourself in the home of some feudal lord.

“I am,” he said smoothly. He had put the lantern out and was patiently waiting for you to enter.

You were still hesitant as you crossed the threshold. Your shoes echoed off the stone floor and into the Great Hall. Tall fires roared and warmed the room, instantly thawing your sore muscles. You heard him softly shut the door behind you before making his way to your side.

“You must be hungry. Follow me.”

In full light you were able to see him a little better. He was richly dressed and clean which meant he had an abundant amount of money, if the manor were any other indication. Large, plush rugs lined the floors of the hall and various chairs and tables were arranged neatly around both fires. Art that seemed larger than life hung on the walls, some were portraits while some were simply landscapes. Other than the two of you, there was no other soul in sight. He walked leisurely and you followed close behind trying to take in as much of the home as you could. A hundred of yours could fit into this hall alone. He turned into a doorway which led you down a hall until you reached an equally stately kitchen with a table and chairs situated inside as well. If you had to guess, there was probably a dining hall close by.

“Take a seat,” he said as he waved his hand towards the table.

He moved fluidly and as if he had all the time in the world. He pulled out a loaf of fresh bread, cheeses, dried meat, and various fruits and brought them to the table. He set them out before you as he grabbed what looked to be a bottle of wine and poured some into a cup. Once he had them out in front of you, he sat across, and looked at you expectantly when you did not move to touch any of it.

“It’s not poisoned,” he laughed.

“Then why don’t you eat?”

His eyes narrowed a little before he composed his expression once more. He drummed his fingers on the table patiently, never breaking eye contact with you. Soon, he sighed loudly as he reached forward for an apple and bit into it. It sounded crisp and juicy. You shuffled slightly in your seat to mask the sounds your stomach was making as you watched him chew.

He swallowed as he sat the fruit down on the table. “See? Not poisoned. Besides, I am not very hungry. Not for that, anyway.”

The way he said the last sentence sent chills down your back, but right now you were too hungry and tired to care.

“What’s your name?” you asked as you reached for the bread.

He hummed as he sat back, placing both feet on the table casually as he watched you eat.

“Jungkook.”

“You’re not from here are you?” The bread tasted freshly made and the crust crunched in your mouth deliciously. Not even your mother made bread this good.

“I’m from a lot of places. Here is just where I choose to be for the moment.”

His answer was odd, but you decided not to press since he seemed to be so aloof. You missed the way his eyes traveled from your face to your neck as you grabbed some of the dried meat. His met yours again as you looked at him.

“You can stay here for the night,” he said as he swung his legs off the table. “It’s much too cold for you to be wandering the woods so late at night. Plus, you never know what you might run into.”

Him? For example. You were not entirely sure he wasn’t a threat yet, but you felt your resolve melting the more he talked and the fuller your stomach became. Sleep clung heavily to your body and the ache in your legs was now a mild, manageable pain. Tendrils of sleep nipped at the corners of your mind. You blinked a little slower.

“My, look how tired you’re getting already.”

He stood from the table and was at your side in seconds. Your eyes drooped and he scooped you up with no issue. Your head lulled against his shoulder as you slipped deeper and deeper. How was this all happening so quickly? You did not have time to answer you own question before you were cloaked in a sleep so deep it could be debated whether you’d come back or not.

Mrow. The sound was distant and familiar. You were still somewhere nestled in the darkness with nowhere else to go. Mrrrow. The sound was a little closer this time and you tried to concentrate on it. Where had you heard that before? Where were you? Confusion hazed your thoughts. Were you at home? Mmmmrrrrrroooooooow. Blurrily, you opened your eyes to a dimly lit room. Heavy, velvet curtains surrounded the bed, but the end was open. You blinked a couple of times to adjust your sight. Next to your legs, sat a large white cat with green eyes. It stared at you inquisitively before meowing again. A fire burned in the fireplace. Oh, right, you were in the manor still. Lightning flashed, lighting up the room in its beautifully terrible display, before it fell dark again, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The cat stood and walked to the edge of the bed before it sat down and meowed again. You scooted closer towards it and it jumped to the ground before turning and waiting. Your feet touched down on an expensive rug. By the light of the fire and the occasional lightning, you could see the room was just as richly decorated as the rest of the manor. The cat meowed again, and you turned to see it sitting by your closed bedroom door.

“What do you want?” you whispered. You still were not entirely sure what to do with your situation. It was clearly still night if not incredibly early morning at this point and a storm was blowing in over the mountains. It would be suicide for you to go out into it. But was there danger within these walls as well?

The cat meowed and you sighed. You tried to walk as quietly as possible. You were not sure what you would disturb, whether it be him or some ghost, you did not want to find out. The door opened silently, and the hallway was lit dimly with candles that lined the walls. The house was dead silent, and you felt a strange chill go through your body. Your curiosity was piqued at the same time you wanted to run as far away from this place as possible. The cat walked lazily down the hallway leading to your right, so you slinked out after it. You did not even want to breathe. You followed it down a few turns of a hallway and the once silent house began to take on life again. Music played somewhere within the home, but behind closed doors. Were those voices? You had never heard a crowd so large before. The cat still walked as if it were not bothered by it in the slightest. The music, some waltz right now, was beginning to grow louder. There was a din of noise as you began to hear laughter and the clink of glasses. The cat now sat in front of heavy, double wooden doors and blinked at you as if it were bored. The voices on the other side were loud, but happy. The music picked up and you could hear dancing. You were pulling open the door before you even had a chance to register what you were doing. The brightness of the room blinded you for a second as you squinted your eyes. When you opened them again you were able to take in the gilded room. It was so unlike the rest of the manor that you began to question where you really were. The ceilings seemed impossibly tall, like the cathedrals father had told you about. A small orchestra was at one end of the room playing music, while hundreds of dancing bodies twirled amongst strange jesters on stilts, aerial dancers unraveled themselves from silk ribbons, and a constant dusting of glitter always seemed to fill the room. Every guest was opulently dressed and not one was without a mask. Some masks covered their whole faces, some half, and some just the eyes. They all ranged from beautiful to grotesque.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” you heard behind you as they handed you a mask. Shocked, you held out your hands, looking at the mask. That was when you noticed that you too were dressed in what seemed to be the finest of silks you had only heard stories of. Intricate flowers were handstitched into the fabric in an array of brilliant colors mixed with gold thread on a background of deep blue. The mask covered your eyes and was as red as blood. Fine crystals were inlaid into the mask, creating a twirling design of jewels that made you look both menacing and beautiful. You turned to see who spoke and it was undeniably your host despite the mask he wore. It covered half his face, but it was crafted beautifully to accentuate his cheekbone, it sloped delicately with his nose, and formed perfectly to drift right past the corner of his mouth, allowing you perfect view to his somewhat crooked smile as he looked down at you.

“You look stunning,” he commented.

“Where am I?”

“In my home.”

He wore a high collared shirt under a deep, rich blue coat that was decorated similarly to your dress. It was paired with dark, high waisted pants that were tucked snugly into shining boots that reached his knees.

“I don’t understand—”

He cut you off by grabbing your hand and led you to the center of dancefloor. He lifted your hand in his and placed the other on your waist as he led you through a waltz. His eyes glittered and shined in the brightness of the room and a fine dusting of diamond powder seemed to cover him head to toe. His dark hair shined under the thousands of candles perched precariously in their sconces. All around you, partners were jovial and laughing as they danced, whispering in one another’s ear while others embraced like lovers. At the edges of the room there were women entangled in the arms of men and even some men touching other men lovingly on their faces as they whispered in dark corners.

Jungkook kept his eyes on your face as you still tried to assess what was happening. The song ended and with it an eruption of cheers from the dancers as waiters came through with trays of drinks. Just as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared again, coming back bearing just as many drinks as before. He stood, still, before you as you watched the celebrating dancers begin to disperse before the next song started.

“Follow me,” he said, extending his hand. You placed your hand in his, and it was warm, inviting, as his hand enveloped yours.

Your thoughts and feelings felt real, but not your own. Something about him warmed you from the inside out as well as sent a stabbing pain of ice through your heart. Your mind told you to run as your body told you to stay.

But what if…?

You shook your head to rid yourself of the thought. His presence seemed to draw you in and keep you there and you felt the edges of the moth’s wing beginning to burn. You winced at the thought of staying here, but the pain was not nearly as bad as before. The crowd around you parted fluidly, filling back in on itself as you passed. No one really looked in your direction; they were caught up in their own worlds, in their own bubbles, completely unaware of anyone around them. You began to question if the scene around you were real. You smelled the sweet scent of champagne, felt it bubble under your nose as the waiter passed, yet the warmth was almost gone from the room.

He pulled you from the brightly lit ballroom, to a small door that blended so well with the wall you did not even know it was there and was pitch beyond where the light reached. He stepped inside and pulled you with him, door shutting quietly back into place. He reached out, pulling your mask from your face. He moved in the dark quickly as if he had the pattern of the house memorized. He took you up several sets of stairs and further away from the party until it was so muted that you had to strain to hear. At the final landing he opened another door. Moonlight flooded the room. The largest window you had ever seen created a clear wall that looked out onto the valley and the surrounding mountains. The moon was full and closer than you had ever seen. A large, heavily draped four poster stood against one wall while an ornate fireplace flanked the other. Large rugs covered the floors and even more beautiful paintings covered the walls. Dark, purple wallpaper that seemed to also be lined in gold covered the walls which also boasted dark wood paneling. Everything about the room seemed warm and mysterious despite his cold hold on yours. He led you across the room until you stood before the large window. Your breath fogged the glass as you gazed wide eyed into the night. An owl swooped past and into the trees, the trees cast ghostly shadows as the moon moved slowly across the sky. Rain began to fall softly as its clouds perfectly framed it.

“This could all be yours,” he whispered into your ear.

You shivered as gooseflesh rose on your arms. That rational part of your brain that had been telling you to run grew quieter and quieter until it was almost gone. Your brain was now connected directly to your heart and for some reason it seized in a way that sent butterflies into your stomach.

Eyes still fixed on the sharp edges of the evergreens, you asked, “What do you mean?”

His lips were warmer than his hands as he pressed them to the base of your neck. You shivered again as he sighed. He inhaled again as if he were smelling a freshly poured glass of wine. His hands were on your upper arms squeezing lightly.

He ran his nose up your neck and let his bottom lip skim your skin. “I’d give you everything you wanted…will you stay with me?”

What was he asking you? Some deep, dark part of you knew exactly what he was asking, exactly what he was, but you had to be wrong. There was no way you were right. His hands slid down your sleeved arms until they reached your wrists. Swiftly, he pulled your hands behind your back while tilting your head back with the other. His lips were on your neck again and you felt him quiver against you. He seemed drunk, but he appeared sober in the ballroom…

“Stay with you?” You wanted him to say it. You did not want to have to face the harsh truth of this and how much you wanted it. Your family would get over you. Right?

His teeth grazed your skin and the ice that you had felt through your heart melted, seeping into your stomach, and downwards. Your body reacted to his touch in a way that scared you.

“_____, you know exactly what I mean,” he whispered. “You knew the moment you accepted my help.”

And you had. His breath did not fog against the glass like yours. Where the wood stairs creaked beneath your feet, his did not. His skin, though warm, had ice beneath its surface.

“Y-your one of those creatures from the s-stories,” you muttered as his grip on your wrists tightened. He seethed against your skin at the word ‘creatures’ and you winced.

“I’m not a creature,” he said as he nipped lightly at your skin, but you felt the warning behind it. “I can create you into something new.” He began to grow excited as he inhaled deeply against your skin once more. His grip loosened a little on your wrists as he became preoccupied with what was underneath your flesh, pulsing in time with your heartbeat which he heard so loudly in his ears. “Stay with me. I can show you the rest of the world, ____. Just let me…” He trailed off as he hotly kissed down your neck, leaving it wet as he began to salivate over your scent.

“Yes,” you whispered, barely above a whisper. Your heartbeat slowed as your body relaxed. It seemed as if the affirmation, the answer to all his questions, was what you needed to do. It felt right. He froze behind you, fingers tightening as he moaned.

“Let me show you…”

His lips trailed to your exposed shoulder as he released your wrists in favor of bunching your dress in his hand. He pulled the hem up quickly, holding it in his hand as he slid it up your bare thigh. He reached beneath finding your center and cupped you gently. You moaned, leaning back into this shoulder. His hand still cupped your jaw, keeping your neck as exposed as possible to him. You were already beginning to soak the cotton of your undergarments as he slid his fingers over you. He nipped a little harder into your neck while he pressed the fabric against your clit. You heard the distinct pop of breaking skin, but the pain never registered as he circled his fingers on you. He laved his tongue across your skin, gathering the first droplets of blood that threatened to spill into your collarbone. He felt the first tingles of electricity go through his body at the taste. It started somewhere in his dead heart and made his fingers feel as if he just touched fire. He slipped his hand through the waistband and now had his skin against yours. You reacted, hips shifting forward as he attached his lips to the bite and sucked lightly. He gathered your slick wetness on his fingers and rubbed over the now swollen bundle of nerves. You had never been touched like this before and you felt high on the experience. He pushed you into his hips as he pressed down on your clit with his palm and pushed two fingers inside of you. You cried a little at the intrusion and he whispered reassurances against your skin that had your body relaxing into his once more. The soreness in your neck was subtle, but there. What masked the pain was the way his fingers curved inside of you exactly right, pushing against something inside of you that had your muscles going lax while all at once so stiff your legs were cramping.

“Do you feel good?” He was pumping his fingers faster now, grinding his palm against your clit. His entire hand was wet, and it made his efforts easier.

“Y-yes,” you muttered as you clung to his wrist. Your other hand was sliding helplessly against the glass.

He could hear your heart fluttering. Hearts beat differently, each had their own unique pattern, just like a fingerprint. But just like people, hearts conveyed emotions like the faces of strangers. Yours beat in a pattern of lust; right where he wanted you. His lips were back at your skin, searching, until he found what he wanted. The vein he needed. The one he had been smelling all night. He took a breath, closed his eyes for a few seconds, suspending time as he meditated. This would be an almost religious experience. He never did choose lightly, but he was sure of this. You would not have to see his teeth sharpen and you were so lost in the feeling of his hand between your legs that you did not really feel his teeth sink deep into your skin. Hot, fresh blood flooded his mouth as he pierced the vein. The taste was all at once bitter and sweet, like a wine with raspberries on the nose and ripe tannins. He drank graciously from you as he curved his fingers at each thrust, pushing you dangerously close to the edge. You had wet the cotton and your thighs as his hand slid faster and faster. He detached his lips, feeling your heart skip a beat. He was not ready for that yet. His lips were wet with your blood and he licked at them greedily. You moaned as your head lulled. You were in a subspace you had never been in before and your body was a mixture of molten warmth spreading from your center and something cold that seeped from where your neck met your shoulder and it spread across your chest. He pumped his fingers until he had you clenching around him. He bit into the flesh of his wrist and brought it to your mouth; your head still laid against his shoulder as your breath shuddered in your chest. He let the dark blood drip across your lips and tongue, and he watched as you instinctively swallowed. Then you winced. He wrapped his arm around your waist as you began to cry out. He ground his palm harder against your clit as he licked at the blood leaking down your shoulder. Your entire body was shuddering as you began to feel too many things at once. You came around his fingers so hard your vision blackened, then a sharp pain in your chest ripped through your body all at once. You cried again as your knees gave way. With his arm still around your waist, he dropped to his knees with you. He leaned back, bringing you to his chest as your eyes rolled back and your body convulsed in his arms. Nestling your head into his lap, he brought his hands to the sides of your face as you laid out before him, arms at your sides, as you felt your heartbeat slow. His face hovered above yours, his dark eyes fixed on your face as he watched your lips quiver. They seemed to be turning blue and your shuddering breath began to slow. He listened intently as your breathing weakened and your once strong heart slowly began to die out. He closed his eyes, hands still gentle on your face, as your entire body slumped in death, the last beat of your heart echoing in his ears. He sat patiently, waiting, as he evened his breathing and concentrated. He reached out with his thoughts, searching yours, waiting for those first few tendrils as the disease took you. A new life breathed within you. A light blossomed, something that he felt more than saw, and it spread through your body like melting snow. Life came back to your limbs as your fingers moved, then a slight movement of your foot. He heard you sigh as you took a breath. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open and you were looking into his endlessly dark ones. He smiled, and it was genuine, as his palms pressed into your skin. He leaned down, placing a metallic kiss to your cool lips.

“Welcome back, my love, I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

[angry-geese]

Risotto Nero x Reader (Soulmate Goose of Enforcement au)

Warnings: none, sfw. minor goose related violence. Some light swearing, its pretty mild tbh. Gn!Reader

Notes: when it's time for two soulmates to meet, a goose appears. The goose is immortal, and cannot be deterred until said soulmates meet. The trouble stems from trying not to be mauled by said goose.

Tumblr ate this the first time i tried to post it so if you've seen this before I'm sorry, I'll have a new fic posted later this week

It's a beautiful day in Italy, and He is a terrible goose.

As a child, you never gave the idea of having a soulmate much thought. It was there. That's about it. As you grew older, you watched all of your friends and family find theirs and settle down, living their own happily ever afters. All of the typical ways people find their soulmate never came to you. No red string of fate ever attached itself to your wrist, no words ever appeared on your arms. The older you got, the less hope you had. Sometimes people were born without soulmates. Sometimes people's soulmates die, and they're left without one.

You're not sure which one is better.

You fell into the underground of Passione after a family debt. The protection fees were becoming too much for your family to handle. The gangs never protected anything. It was their way of trying to pry you from your home without outright killing you. When you stood up for yourself- what a mistake that was- things went wrong. It was your life, or a life of service. Do it or die. You became one of the cogs in Passione's well oiled machine, the gears that turn and run Italy's underground. Your life became replaceable.

You figured a soulmate wouldn't want someone like you. Maybe it was better if you didn't have one. Who would want a low-rate mafioso like you, anyway?

Risotto settled into the thought of not having a soulmate rather well. At a young age he was deemed the black sheep of his family, partly for his frightening appearance, partly for how hard he found it to fit in. He left to live with his nonna and cousin as a teenager, soon falling into the gangs after the death of his cousin. If someone was going to be born without a soulmate, it was him. His occupation didn't allow soulmates. Having a significant other would only serve as something else to use to hurt him. It's bittersweet, in a strange sort of way. As a child, he would run himself in circles trying to find his soulmate. But a partner would do more harm than good.

People like him don't get happy endings. That's a fate he's reserved himself to.

Risotto first spotted you from across the restaurant, your eyes locking for only a moment. You bumped into him, spilling a bit of wine on your shirt. Your eyes went wide as you muttered a slew of apologies. He brushed the entire event off. Truly, you didn't stand out in the crowd. From the very beginning, you had the wide-eyed, frightened look of someone new to this, standing among a group of people with the same traumatized look on their face. Really, he didn't give you much thought. He hated ceremonies like these. He hated having to wear a suit. He hated how open this place was. He would be noticed here, something that his job requires avoiding at all costs. Despite his discomfort, he's tolerated it this long. His team pays little attention as he walks outside, making an offhand comment about it being stuffy. The important parts are over anyway, he won't miss anything.

The crowd is getting to you.

Rarely you find yourself in a place so packed. Ceremonies like this are not commonly held. It makes you anxious seeing just how widespread Passione is. This isn't even everyone. Many of the higher ups- the capos and even the boss- didn't bother coming.

You head outside for a smoke. Your hands shake as you pull out a pack of matches. The cool evening air is a nice change from the stuffy restaurant. You watch as the sun sets over the ocean. A few sparse clouds float overhead, but the sky is mostly clear, painted shades of orange and pink.

To your left, you hear a menacing sounding honk.

A goose stands to your side, it's beady black eyes filled with malice. As unnerving as it is, you stay still. All it's doing is standing there, why bother it? It'll leave eventually. It's not like you're messing with its babies.

You absentmindedly shoo it away, going back to your cigarette.

Menacingly, it steps forward. Despite this, you stand your ground. It's a bird, what's the worst it'll do?

It takes a bite of the hem of your slacks, tugging of your pant leg. When you don't immediately respond, it chomps on your ankle. The bite draws blood, causing you to recoil, and step back. The cry you let out is pitiful. After a second, you regain your composure, now filled with unbridled rage.

"Piss off ya feathered fuck!" You say. You'd feel bad swinging at it, but it's clearly out for blood. It's awfully bold for something that doesn't even reach your knees.

Risotto emerges from the restaurant to find you being attacked by a goose.

He simply watches the event unfold from the safety of the patio. You flee in his direction, collapsing on the stones at his feet. Warm blood trickles down your leg, staining your sock and shoe. He's merely watching, up until he puts some distance between the two of you and your avian attacker charges. Risotto isn't scared, more than he's caught off guard. Animals tend to be afraid of him. Maybe they could tell what he did for a living.

The evil goose gives one last hiss before stepping back, nodding it's small head. The second either of you try to step away, its charging, hissing as if it's out for more blood.

You glace from it, to Risotto, then back to it.

When you stand, he towers nearly a foot over your head. Black eyes glare down at you. You want to shrink and hide under his gaze. He feels familiar. His very presence is comforting in a bizarre sort of way.

You've heard of this- one of the rarest ways to find a soulmate. There's no real explanation behind it. There's no reason behind the others, but they tend to make more sense than this. When it's time for someone to find their soulmate, a goose appears. The difficulty comes from trying not to be mauled by said goose. The goose is immortal, and cannot be killed or deterred until two soulmates find each other. That's it that's the au.

"You're my... soulmate?" You say. It comes out as more of a question.

Him? Seriously?

"I guess so."

His voice is quiet. It's very deep and would be intimidating had the circumstances been different. He helps you to your feet, holding your hands in his. He offers his arm out to you. You take it, leaning against him. He's rather warm. You brush some of the dirt off. He takes a moment, giving you a once over for any more injuries. You appear fine, despite your damaged pride.

It makes him wonder what group you'll be assigned to. Probably Bucciarati's. You seem far too meek for his team or the guard. In a way, the thought is comforting. A smaller group would be less dangerous than his.

"I'm Risotto." He says, even quieter.

Despite the comical circumstances, his heart races. He has a soulmate. A million questions are going through his head. 90% of them are asking "is that seriously a goose?"

"Y/N." You dust yourself off a bit. He commits the sound of your name to memory. "Wait why the fuck are you named after rice?!"

"Don't worry about it." He says. The corners of his mouth tug into a smile. You simply shrug.

"I think I need a band-aid." You say.

Slowly the goose waddles off, setting out for it's next victims.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

193 for... maybe nanahiko? Really just do whatever ship you feel like :D

193. "Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!" | VestigesTorino [Yes. OT8. The orgies are fantastic, and Torino is Holder bait, 8th and 9th exempt.] | WC: 2,222 of an OFA!VampireCoven!AU except op has taken liberties with worldbuilding.

TW: Blood-drinking. Outrageous flirting. Mildly spicy!

//

“Vampires,” Sorahiko echoes blankly.

He looks from left to right, trying to spot the differences between himself and the six adult men and one adult woman sitting at this round table. Most atypical appearances can be attributed to the strange and wondrous natures of Quirks, so Sorahiko could excuse the fourteen red eyes (every iris the identical shade) as a matter of Quirk heritage. However, none of the Shigarakis resemble the other.

They still might be pulling his leg.

The leader of the household (presumably) leans his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. “Torino-san,” he says in a gentle voice, “we greatly appreciate your timely rescue of our youngest. And believe me when I say I would have preferred you stay ignorant of my coven’s true nature.”

“But the boy wants to be a professional hero,” one of the men interrupts. His arms are crossed, and his hair sticks up in rakish angles. An X-shaped scar has been carved over the bridge of his nose, just missing the eyes.

He sounds dismissive of the kid’s dream.

Fair. When Sorahiko had stepped onto the moonlit scene, the kid was frantically scrabbling at a thick-skinned villain’s hand, trying to save his bag from being rummaged. The villain had planted a knee in the kid’s stomach in an attempt to menace him into silence.

Sorahiko pounced on the villain, called in the location to pick up the too-heavy bastard, and escorted the boy home. He fielded questions about heroics and U.A. High for half an hour before they finally reached the Shigaraki compound.

And now he is here, trapped in a gigantic dining room, being told about vampires.

“We agreed to let him try,” says the singular woman sharply.

“If you three hadn’t filled his head about saving the world,” a man with a spiky ponytail shoots back, “then we wouldn’t have this problem. And you too, Yoichi.”

“Nevertheless,” the leader says. His red eyes gleam in the low light, and Sorahiko feels his skin prickling at the attention.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Ah, who hasn’t heard of the toughest teacher of U.A.?” another man asks, sly and teasing. His voice is soft like the leader’s, but perceptibly younger. His coloring is similar to the woman’s, but he’s lean where she’s muscular. “Yoichi believes we should give you a head’s up. Toshinori is a good child, but even he will slip from time to time, and that will draw undue attention to himself.”

Sorahiko considers these seven faces. Slowly, he says, “You think he’ll be accepted into U.A.”

“Three of us are active pro-heroes, and we’ve been training him when we can,” the woman informs him. “I’d say he’s got a headstart compared to all of your first years.”

“My students have always been terrible. That’s what schooling is for.”

She flashes a smile at him, toothy and amused; his throat works through a sudden dry spell. Belatedly, Sorahiko realizes that every adult in this kitchen is eyeing him with intense interest. Even the ones that haven’t spoken yet.

Yoichi speaks again. “He’s smart, and he’ll be strong. U.A. will accept him. I ask you for your discretion and help, Gran Torino.”

He could refuse, but Sorahiko assumes they’ll simply kill him. Being blackmailed is a low possibility; Sorahiko doesn’t have much to be blackmailed about. And pro-heroes disappear all the time. No one really knows why. Principal Shi might demand an investigation on Gran Torino’s behalf (and possibly at the behest of Recovery Girl, who grudgingly acknowledges Torino’s efforts to raise the survival rate of U.A.’s graduates), but otherwise…

Still. Vampires. Another subset of humanity, among the Quirked and Quirkless. It’s weird enough to be true.

“Is this a verbal agreement?” Sorahiko asks.

A bark of laughter from the square-jawed man in the leather jacket, who leans forward and grins like a shark at Sorahiko. The light glints off the yellow lenses of his goggles, and the play of light and shadow highlights the muscle definition of the man’s shirtless chest. In a rich, low voice, he says, “We’ve got something better. A contract.”

“Using what?” Sorahiko bites back. “Paper and ink?”

“Skin and teeth, teach’.”

“Daigoro’s correct,” says Yoichi mildly, snatching Sorahiko’s attention away. “Torino-san, allow me to introduce my coven. I am Shigaraki Yoichi, second of my line. In the order of which my coven grew: Kenzo, Sanjuro, Hikage, Daigoro, En, Nana, and you’ve met our Toshinori.” As he speaks, he points to each person in turn.

He wonders when the kid got folded into this group. The kid’s affection for his home had been sincere, and he greeted the adults (well, Hikage had only come out of the forested grounds at Daigoro’s call) with merry cheer.

Is Toshinori even a vampire? U.A. conducts its business in the daytime.

Sorahiko nods in acknowledgement and doesn’t offer his full name in return. Instead, he says, “If I accept this contract, will you tell me whatever I want to know? About anything I ask?”

“Even vampires aren’t omniscient,” Yoichi answers.

Rolling his eyes, Sorahiko clarifies, “If the kid’s going to develop vampirism over the course of high school, then I need to know things. Like whether or not he’ll go feral over spilled blood. Or if sunlight’s going to be an issue.”

Yoichi’s smile is kind, and surprisingly not patronizing. “What we can tell, we will. The contract will have a mutual hold on us all.”

“What could break it?”

“A different coven, not that you should seek one out,” says Nana. “Trust us, we’re as nice as you get in the supernatural world.”

Sorahiko does not have many options. He hates the idea of agreeing to this without a safety net or a contingency plan. How can this woman ask him to trust them immediately? He’d have to be a gullible idiot, or a fool in lust, or...

He exhales. Sighing in resignation, Sorahiko tips his head to Yoichi and says, wry, “I accept the contract. Don’t kill me if your kid comes crying home about how mean I am.”

Yoichi shrugs, casual as anything. “Toshinori’s quite brave for his age, and stubborn, too. You’ll have your hands full training him.” He then stands from his chair; in measured, unhesitating steps, Yoichi approaches where Sorahiko sits at the opposite side of the round table. What he orders, Sorahiko complies with. “Take your cape off, Torino-san. Your gloves as well.”

“You may have to unzip the top half of your suit,” advises Hikage. “You won’t want the signatures to overlap.”

“Signatures,” Sorahiko repeats, pausing.

One glove’s already off. The flight suit’s sleeves extend up to his wrists, and they don’t have a lot of give. Similarly, the collar is skin-tight and provides ample coverage.

Daigoro playfully snaps his teeth at Sorahiko, once, twice. He says, “Paper and ink, skin and teeth. You forget already?”

The man barely flinches at the snarl directed his way. Seven pairs of eyes are honing in on the exposed flesh; Sorahiko shoves his self-conscious thoughts away. He focuses on the sheer outrage of being asked to strip by strangers, hissing, “Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!”

“I’ll make sure he stays in his room,” Nana volunteers. She winks at Sorahiko. “We’ll be quick, Torino-san. You just have to keep quiet.”

“You—!”

She slips from her chair and darts off, exiting the dining room and ascending the stairs, floating off the floor. Sorahiko glares after her but snaps to attention as Yoichi stops by his chair, hip resting against the table, red eyes expectant.

Grudgingly, Sorahiko works off the second glove. As he does, Yoichi continues to lecture.

“The signatures can be made in two ways. A lighter bite will result in less pain, but will fade sooner. And I’d like for this arrangement to stand for several years, Torino-san. A lighter bite necessitates more renewals. Possibly, seven bites every two weeks.”

“And a stronger bite?”

“Seven every month.”

He scowls at the thought. The only silver lining he can see is that his suit will cover the marks, which will save him from his colleagues’ gossiping tongues. “Monthly, then. Are you drinking my blood? I don’t think I’ve got enough to cover seven appetites.”

Yoichi offers him a gentle smile. “A mouthful will suffice.”

Sorahiko works his jaw, and then he reaches backwards for the hidden zipper. It’s incongruously loud in the dining room; Sorahiko feels his face burning as he hurriedly rips his arms free of the sausage casing sleeves, letting the slackening front of the suit crumple to his lap. He hears an appreciative whistle.

“Daigoro, he can give you a run for your money,” Sanjuro jokes.

“He’s softer,” Daigoro deems, and Sorahiko bristles. “Must be the suit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “And proper hydration, asshole.”

“I’m not complaining!”

“At ease,” says Yoichi, calm, and that’s when Nana makes her reappearance. She swings back into the dining room, expression confident and content, until she spies Sorahiko’s half-naked appearance.

“Are we going in order?” she questions Yoichi, even as her eyes are trained on Sorahiko’s.

“That’s how it works, Nana,” Kenzo answers for their leader. “How’s Toshinori?”

“Watching his martial arts dramas. We’re good for like, fifty minutes.”

“You said you’ll be quick,” Sorahiko rasps, and his hands are clenching into fists, anticipatory and anxious. This is all so incredibly weird. “You all need more than five minutes to bite me?”

Yoichi laughs. It’s a bright sound, attractive and human and not at all like something that should be coming out of a self-proclaimed bloodsucker. When Yoichi moves, pushing off the table, Sorahiko nervelessly allows himself to be pinned to the back of his chair. One hand cards through his hair and lightly tugs; the other hand settles at his shoulder and presses it down.

His throat is exposed. Though Yoichi bends close, Sorahiko knows it isn’t the jugular he’s aiming for.

“Torino-san will need a moment to recuperate,” Yoichi whispers, and Sorahiko shivers, swallows past the apprehension, and spends half a second regretting his decision to let this happen. Yoichi adds, “We will not harm you, and you will not harm us. Your help, in exchange for ours. Let it be so.”

Teeth sink into the join of Sorahiko’s neck and shoulder, sharp and surprisingly hot. Sorahiko chokes out a garbled sound and jerks in his seat, until Yoichi’s bite goes deeper, deeper, and then Sorahiko gasps. Adrenaline bursts to life in his system; his Quirk sputters a reflexive Jet through his boots, but Yoichi’s slender frame hides an unseen strength.

He holds Sorahiko down.

He draws blood from the wound. Sorahiko barely feels the drain, fixated he is on the pressure exerted against him. Every single one of them is going to have the capacity to do this. If Yoichi, whose frame is most similar to En’s, can keep Sorahiko from bolting—Sorahiko arches his back, an involuntary moan escaping him.

It feels good. It feels really, really good.

Yoichi hums against his skin, pleased as punch, and his teeth retract. Sorahiko feels the tongue lap over the mark, heavy with spit. As Yoichi rears back, Yoichi rolls his neck lazily, licking his lips like a cat full from its meal.

“The saliva is a coagulant,” he explains idly, watching Sorahiko slump back against the chair, lungs still stuttering. A faint sweat has broken across his forehead, and Sorahiko distantly suspects that he’s going to need all the time he can get before the kid grows bored of his dramas.

“Oh, he already looks wrecked,” En observes. His awed tone elicits a laugh and encouraging clap to his shoulder from Daigoro, the latter of which requires En to brace against.

“You think he’ll last seven bites?”

“To be fair,” Hikage says, “that is a common erogenous zone. We’ll focus on less stimulating areas.”

Sorahiko, somewhat nettled at the implication that he won’t last (and what the hell does that mean? That he’ll back out? Start begging for mercy?) all seven signatures, musters his strength and shoves himself upright. He scoffs exaggeratedly, masking a shaky exhale with it. He challenges the coven, “Do your fucking worst.”

Yoichi blinks. Behind him, Kenzo is leaving his seat and stalking towards Sorahiko’s, red eyes gleaming. Before Kenzo can dive at Sorahiko and probably tear an artery out, Yoichi holds him back with one placating hand.

“Do not,” Yoichi warns. “We’re not trying to induce a thrall, do you all hear me?”

“Yoichi,” says Sanjuro, “if the man gets off, he gets off.”

A sigh leaves Yoichi. “Be that as it may. Please try not to leave him resentful for the months ahead.” He pats Kenzo’s collarbone; Kenzo catches the thin-boned hand and raises it to his lips.

“Understood, Yoichi,” Kenzo murmurs into the knuckles. He lets go, and Yoichi moves aside, now more fond than exasperated. A safety net, maybe.

In any case, Sorahiko gazes up at number two, who studies him back.

“The shoulder?” suggests Sorahiko, half-heartedly offering the right one up to sacrifice.

Kenzo inclines his head. “Just above the bicep will work,” and he goes on to prove his point, keeping Sorahiko locked in position, unable to do anything but wriggle and fail to contain strangled moans.

This is going to be a long hour.

[woman-loving]

Policing Lesbians in 1950s-70s Sydney

Selection from Unnamed Desires: A Sydney Lesbian History, Rebecca Jennings, 2015.

This section describes how lesbianism could be subject to policing even in the absence of explicit criminalization, and how public silence around the issue of lesbianism contributed to confusion over the legal status of lesbian behaviors in a way that aided repression.

Cultural attitudes toward homosexuality in mid-twentieth century Australia were shaped in part by the strong legal stance on the issue. Male homosexual activity was legally proscribed under the Crimes (Amendment) Act 1924, but lesbianism was never explicitly criminalised in New South Wales. Official concern over female same-sex desire appears to have been extremely limited and there is no evidence that the question of legislating against lesbianism was even debated in government circles. Some cultural commentators were critical of this apparent oversight. Dr McGeorge, member of a special committee appointed by the NSW government in 1955 to examine problems associated with homosexuality, complained: ‘No investigation into the lesbianism aspect of it has been suggested. It should have been. The investigation is overdue.’[7] Claiming that ‘ordinarily normal and healthy’ young girls were being seduced into the practice by subtle, older lesbians, McGeorge argued: ‘The authorities, unfortunately, seem to regard this as too delicate a question to be tackled openly. Because of its increase, it must e brought into the open and fought in the open.[8] For McGeorge, lesbianism was a social evil which posed a threat to young women and needed to be both publicly debated and legally proscribed.[9] However, his views did not find support amongst legislators and the special committee of which he was a member was never to publish a report.[10]

While the political will to tackle the issue at government level was limited, concern was apparently greater in the police force. In her autobiography, NSW’s first woman police officer, Lillian Armfield, suggests that female homosexuality was a matter of concern to the police. Referring to the case of Iris Webber, a notorious criminal and lesbian in interwar Sydney, Armfield commented:

“[Lesbianism] is a problem the authorities must face, and it is a difficult one. It will require the co-operation of the wisest and best of our medical specialists, police, clergy, and welfare workers, because it is on the increase. Those who practise it aren’t all as open about it as Iris Webber. They are furtive and subtle, and the leaders in the cult are shrewd and persistent in their eagerness to corrupt others ... Sooner or later, and the sooner the better, this menace will have to be faced by the authorities. It is a menace too serious to be ignored just because it is such an ugly and unpleasant issue to drag out into the open.”[11]

Members of the Vice Squad apparently shared Armfield’s view that lesbianism was a ‘cult which, unfortunately, has a much wider vogue than the average citizen suspects.’[12] Such attitudes helped to share the stance of the police toward lesbianism, and despite the absence of any specific legislation prohibiting sexual acts between women, the police utilised a range of minor, broadly defined offences to target lesbians, thereby rendering certain forms of lesbian practice or identity illegal.[13]

The strongly disapproving attitudes of some members of the police force, combined with the absence of a public discourse on lesbianism and the enforcement of laws against male homosexuality, produced considerable confusion about the precise state of the law relating to lesbianism. Margaret, who became aware of her own same-sex desires in the late 1950s, recalled having a general sense that lesbianism was prohibited. Having met a young woman at work to whom she was attracted, she was apprehensive about approaching the woman for fear of the consequences:

“Well, I felt that this was a big responsibility for me, seducing this young woman and putting her on this path to disaster or that I’d get into trouble, surely, because it wasn’t appropriate to do that--I don’t know if it was a criminal offence, but I suppose if somebody found out about it, it’d be pretty serious.”[14]

While Margaret was unsure of the exact consequences she might be faced with, the perception that lesbian sexual practice was, in fact, illegal, was relatively widespread before the 1970s and both the police and members of the public--including lesbians themselves--acted accordingly. When 15-year-old Sandra Willson attempted to put her arm around an older female friend in 1950s Sydney, the woman called the police and a female officer warned Sandra: ‘You do realise that your behaviour constitutes a criminal offence?’ She was told that if she contacted the woman again, she would be brought before the Children’s Court.[15] A few years later, her sexual practices brought her into contact with the police again. Now 17 and living with her girlfriend in a small Bondi flat, Sandra wrote to a friend describing her new domestic circumstances. The letter fell into the hands of the friend’s mother who, believing Sandra’s lesbian relationship to be illegal, contacted the police. That Sunday, Sandra and her girlfriend Barbara were at home in bed when the police arrived at the door. Referring to Sandra’s letter, an officer claimed: ‘New you can’t try to deny you are a homosexual because the letter states quite plainly that you are. And that you are living with this other girl as “man and wife.”‘[16] The police searched the flat, apparently commenting on any evidence that the two girls were sharing  bedroom, and Sandra recalled:

“They acted like a law unto themselves and I hated their bastard hides for it. I wanted to rush them to attack them, but their size alone showed this would be folly. But I was also cowed by the feeling that they were right, and I felt such shame. I knew it was a criminal offence to make love to anyone of one’s own sex Men over the age of eighteen could actually go to jail for up to three years for it. Not a public performance, but for an act done behind their own bedroom doors, in their own home and lodgings.

It was a criminal act. Against the laws of God and man!”[17]

The police took Sandra and Barbara down to Central Police Station on Liverpool Street where they were charged with ‘being exposed to moral danger’. Sandra, who, as the elder of the pair, was portrayed as the seducer, was sentenced to detention at the Girls Training School in Parramatta, while Barbara was released into the care of her parents.

Child welfare legislation was widely used in early and mid-twentieth century NSW to control socially unacceptable, but rarely criminal, behaviour by teenage girls. Kerry Carrington and Margaret Pereira have argued that ‘The blurring of delinquency and neglect led to the expansion of juvenile justice intervention into the lives of young people which allowed the Children’s Court the jurisdiction to punish children for non-criminal conduct.’[18] Girls were charged under the NSW Child Welfare Act 1939 as either ‘neglected’ or ‘uncontrollable’ and ‘exposed to moral danger’ for behaviours such as truancy, sexual activity or being the victims of sexual abuse. A broad range of agents, from the police to social workers, education professionals and psychologists, advised on and intervened in cases, basing their determinations as much on family and social background and current medical and psychiatric theory as on the specific details of the relevant offence or charge. Girls could be sentenced to an indeterminate period in a child welfare institution such as Parramatta Girls Training School, sometimes only ending when they turned 18, although girls charged with a criminal offence would usually only remain for between six and nine months. There was no formal system for distinguishing between girls convicted of a criminal offence and others, although a broad attempt was made to keep girls deemed ‘corrupt’ apart form the rest. Conditions in the home were tough and perceived misdemeanours were punished with solitary confinement or harsh and humiliating tasks such as the scrubbing of floors.[19]

For adult women, a range of other laws related to vagrancy and public decency were utilised by the police to express disapproval of lesbianism, in the absence of specific legislation against female same-sex activity. In the decades after the war, dress codes were employed to contain the activities of butch lesbians in the public sphere, although confusion was again widespread as to the precise state of the law in this regard. Sandra Willson, who regularly dressed in men’s clothes on the street in 1950s’ Sydney and occasionally wore men’s suits to work, made enquiries into the legality of this practice. She was informed by her parole officer that wearing men’s clothes was not in itself illegal, but masquerading as a man was: ‘There is nothing illegal about it’, she was told, ‘as long as you make no attempt to portray yourself as a male. You can’t, for instance, use a men’s urinal but will always have to use the women’s convenience.’[20] Laurie, however, recalling her experiences as a butch lesbian in Sydney in the 1960s and 1970s, maintained that laws did regulate women’s dress. ‘Some law,’ she said, required that, ‘With the butches, in those days, you had to wear, if you dressed butch--three piece suits and that--you had to wear a bit of women’s apparel, didn’t matter what.’[21] Rae agreed, claiming: ‘Back then the laws were quite strange. God help you if you didn’t wear a bra, for example, because, if you were picked up by the police, you had to be wearing three pieces of women’s apparel. Now I don’t wear a bra, if I’d been picked up, I’d have been really in trouble. No, you had to have three pieces of women’s apparel on.’[22] Vagrancy laws, which prohibited indecent and disorderly behaviour, had been used in NSW and elsewhere in Australia to target cross-dressing since the nineteenth century, although research has demonstrated that the penalties faced by those who came to notice of the police could vary widely.[23] However, it is unclear whether any law specifically defined male impersonation in terms of items of apparel and it is interesting that the apparently widespread belief in such legislation is also reflected in US butch lesbian communities of the postwar period. In their study of a lesbian community in Buffalo, New York, in the mid-twentieth century, Elizabeth Kennedy and Madeline Davis note that ‘Many narrators mention the legal specification for proper dress, although some said it required three pieces of female clothes, [and some] two.’[24] Kennedy and Davis were unable to locate ‘a New York State law about what constitutes male or female impersonation, despite the unanimity of narrators on the subject’ and, drawing on the work of Nan Hunter, concluded that ‘a judge in a particular case made a ruling that two or three pieces of clothing of the “correct” sex negated male or female impersonation and that set a precedent used by law enforcement agencies.[25]

Laws against insulting or offensive behaviour were also interpreted broadly by police to include demonstrations of affection between women or visible manifestations of a lesbian identity. Addressing a seminar on ‘Female Homosexuality’ at Sydney University in 1975, Helen Coonan outlined a number of ways in which lesbians were discriminated against in law, and noted that ‘lesbian behaviour can be prosecuted and has been prosecuted under the catch all phrase of “offensive behaviour”.’[26] In 1978, the feminist and gay press reported that two women had been arrested and charged for hugging on the grass in a Sydney park.[27] Women in lesbian bars were also subject to police harassment. Jan Hillier, a Melbourne butch lesbian, recalled the ‘frightening times she and her friends experience don a trip to Sydney in the 1960s:

“I remember I once went to Sydney with Hank and Speedy and a few of the butch lesbians. We all got on the train and off we went and we got all dolled up and went to some gay bar in William Street. Well Bumper Farrell raided the place, scooped us all up and put us in the Darlinghurst cells for the weekend. We were only kids, 16 or 17. He locked us up for being drunk and disorderly and left us there for the whole weekend. No charges were ever laid. On the Monday we had to go back to Melbourne to work. I was terrified my mother was going to find out I’d been in jail ... I’ve never been that fond of Sydney.”[28]

Such police tactics continued into the 1970s and, in March 1978, lesbian and gay campaigning group CAMP NSW complained that clientele at the lesbian nightclub Ruby Reds had been arrested on charges of using offensive language.[29]

While no legislation explicitly targeted female homosexuality, therefore, the very absence of a public discourse around lesbianism and the law left women in considerable doubt as to which behaviours were legal and which, if any, were not. As a result, many women absorbed a general and ill-defined sense that desire between women--and any outward expression of it--was not only unacceptable but potentially punishable in some way.

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 5

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Summary: Post Mi6 - August manages to escape with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. With every agent in the world on the hunt for him, life became a living hell, but that’s okay because hell is where he reigns.

Too bad for the woman who’ll stand in his way.

Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 |

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild)

Word count: 4K

Warnings: Dark themes, kidnapping, gore, slight violence, mentions of sexual encounters, dirty words, sexual threats. It’s August, he’s the baddest of bad boys!

A/N: Thanks again for reading guys, I am having fun with August and Igni 💖 and really enjoy reading your feedback so keep it coming! Thanks @agniavateira for editing my work and consulting me through and through!

Title: History of a Bad Man

“Sit down,” August commands coldly, his hand pushing her bony shoulder, forcing her to sit on the bed. Ingvild’s behind lands on the mattress with a bounce, her gaze remaining on the strange menacing man as he moves through the room with harsh steps. An irritated look mars his face as he looks for something.

She exploits the sparse moment of false freedom, searching for his well-concealed arsenal. Liam’s words of wisdom from her days of training echo in her mind. “There is always a slip,” an absentee of the mind. This large dangerous man might be an equal opponent yet he is just a man. 

And this agent of chaos had his plan interrupted, ironic as it may be. In his fine work of hiding most of the weapons from her reach, he remained negligent, keeping his handgun next to the laptop on his desk. 

Keep in mind he carries that knife with him. The scar on her torso should be a keen reminder.

“Can I at least have my undergarments back? Or do you plan to keep me here naked, Mr. Walker?” she calmly asks.

“I don’t plan to keep you.” August speaks with no real emotion in his voice. He has left her clothes to dry on the radiator throughout the night. Her tactical suit is still damp but her ridiculously small underwear and bra seem to have dried. He picks them up, then carelessly throws them at her face before grabbing the large medical kit. 

The garments are warm and pleasant to the touch. Ingvild manages to slip into her underwear beneath the bathrobe with haste before August returns to sit in his chair. 

Appearing determined, he unzips the blue medical bag, preparing some bandages and pulling out a bottle of antiseptic. “Open up,” he speaks, gesturing at the white cotton robe around her body. 

She stares at him oddly, her hands latching onto the fabric. 

He sighs, rolling his eyes at her. Fine lines of irritation are drawn on his forehead. “The bandage is wet and needs to be replaced. Do you want your wound to get infected?” 

Cautiously she observes him, wondering what brings a malicious man who tried to kill her only a few hours ago to tend to her wound. It seems like any action he performs is robotic, as if he is still in the CIA, following protocols. Curiosity sets her mind, driving her to follow his request with obedience and untie the cotton bind that holds the robe together.     

August keeps his leer on his face, whether she is frightened by him or not he can’t determine. She seems trained in hiding or faking her emotions.

As most women are.  

His fingers pry the robe open, just enough to uncover the fusty bandage on her torso. 

Carefully, his eyes descend from her face to her chest, unable to ignore the way the fabric hangs on the edge of her small perky breast. The roundness of it appears tempting enough to sink his teeth in and leave a nice, bleeding bite mark for another scar on that beautiful pure skin.  

You love it when they’re pure.

He brushes that vampiric thought away, trying to keep a clear, indifferent mind as he begins to peel the medical tape from her pale flesh.    

The coldness on his face is mesmerizing. There is not an inch of care as he removes the old bandages and exposes her ghastly injury. The crescent line is bulging out, looking purple and irritated while the damaged skin around the area of the wound is white with a tint of blue. She stares at it with almost clinical fascination, her gaze tracing the shape and the amateur-looking stitches without saying a word.

Not even a complaint about damaging her fine-looking body?

“You haven’t answered my question.” His deep voice disturbs her exploration, forcing her to avert her gaze to his face. He is stern, focused on the wound as if he has any care for her well-being. Using the back of his fingers, he moves one side of the robe to further examine the status of the stitches. 

“Which one? You ask so many August, you’re like a really boring date.” 

If truth be told, the last 14 hours have been anything but boring. She kissed death on its fickle lips and was brought back to life by the devil himself to later share moments of carnal euphoria in front of one another. 

All in a day’s work. 

Yet she prevents him from having that pride, gifting him with snide in her voice and one of her trademark scornful smirks. He smirks back, giving her just as much as hatred in return while opening the bottle of alcohol and pouring some of it onto the sterile gauze. 

Oh princess, I’m about to enjoy how much this is going to hurt.

“One: I asked you who Liam is.” he raises his voice and presses the damp gauze onto the wound without warning. His eyes shine with child-like anticipation, waiting for the scream that never leaves her controlled breath. The torment in her glassy grey eyes is apparent yet her face is stoic, not even a twitch of a muscle as she swallows her suffering and keeps her pride.

Impressive. 

“Let’s play a game then,” she suggests, her voice strained as she forces herself to speak without any sign of tremor from the searing pain that’s inflicted upon her. August cocks one eyebrow up, curious to hear her suggestion.

“Quid pro quo.”

His head tilts to the side, considering the idea. If anything, August Walker always loved to speak about himself, even when people didn’t know it was himself he was speaking of. Hiding behind the pseudonym of John Lark, he speaks about his horrifying actions as if he was some ghost or a myth, while all the glory was always his.

“Whatever.” He agrees to her terms and continues to wipe the wound clean, applying a wisp of more alcohol to cleanse the blood clots that formed around the stitches. He imagines this hurts like hell, if he was in her place right now he’d be squirming with agony yet she keeps her composure, eyes still as death.

Ingvild watches as he leans closer, his head nearly rests on her chest. He takes his time, patiently examining and cleaning the injury he inflicted on he. August Walker is a patient man. She takes a mental note before deciding to answer his question. “Liam is my job trafficker.”

“You mean your pimp?” he mocks her, his stormy blue eyes granting her a glimpse of his disrespectful reaction before he places the bloodstained gauze away. 

He is answered with silence, cold and unyielding, just like her. “Does he or anyone else know I’m here?” he asks, taking an antiseptic ointment and applying it onto a new piece of gauze.

“Are you not a man of your word, August Walker?” she asks and leans back as he presses the bandage onto the wound. “Quid pro quo, remember?”

No, I am the great deceiver.

Her eyes are at him, claiming sincerity from a man who tried to lie and trick her from the moment they first met. But then again, she also was never honest with him to begin with, pretending to be just a girl when she was anything but.  

A deep arduous sigh escapes his mouth. He takes a larger piece of dressing and places it onto the wound to cover the entire area.

“Fine, ask away.”

She stares as he takes the medical tape and cuts it into smaller pieces, placing the first piece between her skin and the dressing. He then smooths his finger over the tape to keep the bandage tight on her wound.

“Why do you want to destroy the world, August Walker?” 

August pauses, lifting his eyes again to meet her face. She has her chin resting on her fist, staring at him with pure and sick fascination. Almost as if she’s excited to hear the history of this very bad man. It occurs to him in that very instant that the girl who was sent out to eliminate him has not a drop of idea of who she’s been sought out to hunt. Typical Erica Sloane, he thought, let the dogs sniff him out but tell them nothing. 

“You really know nothing do you, little girl?”

“I got your file, it tells me everything about you: army service, height, weight, all your operations, skills, achievements, and ex-girlfriends. All the boring stuff.” She explains, watching the frown that forms on his face as if his ego is bruised. “I know that you tried to detonate a nuclear device almost a week ago, but I don’t know why, it’s as if, pieces of the puzzle are… missing?”

She nearly hisses as August places the last piece of tape on her dressing, the careful, clinical touch from before is now replaced by a crude, punishing one. “Did Erica mention what she did?” he asks, pressing his thumb against the tape to create more pressure. “Did she tell you about the rot in the CIA and the government? A system so biased and corrupt that it forces people like you to fall victim to the sickness the old world order created.”  

Ingvild watches him intently, ignoring the punishment his fingers wrongfully inflict on her wound as if she’s the one to blame. There is a blazing hot fury in his eyes but also an emotion she hasn’t seen before, deeming those ocean blues to look like an animal that was injured, or stripped off of its pride. 

Curious, she thinks to herself while his thumb tightens another tape to her skin and slides onto her torso, grazing the naked skin unkindly. 

“I am going to fix the world, princess.” He answers with a rasp in his voice, glaring fiercely into those rain cloud eyes when something hard and cold pushes beneath his chin. The black barrel of a gun, of his gun, sinks into the softness of the tender flesh beneath his jaw.

There is a sick smile dancing on her face as she holds the gun to his face, her finger resting on the trigger, flirting with it while August stares at her in a mixture of surprise and fury.

“No you won’t,” she speaks, and pulls the trigger.

The empty metallic click rings in his ears, but not even a twitch or a wrinkle forms at his face as she pushes her finger against the little nub. She pulls the trigger for the second time and then for the third. All the lines in her brow become apparent, her eyes narrowed with hatred and frustration as she continues to shoot the unloaded gun with gritted teeth. 

August grabs her wrist tightly, pulling her hand away and forcing the gun out of her hand. “You really thought I didn’t see you take my gun?” He asks with an arrogant smirk on his face. “That I’d be stupid enough to leave a loaded gun unsupervised with a woman like you, princess?”

She utters a small growl, staring at him with deadly determination while trying to wrest her wrist free from his grasp to no use. “Stop calling me princess. I will kill you, August Walker.”  

August hisses with disrespect while staring deeply into her eyes, as if seeking for something in them. Her glare is bewitching. He imagines she has great power over every man who stands in her way like a black widow, luring her prey into the web. 

But he is not falling for these tricks. These days are long gone.

With the brisk move of his hands, her wrists are captured and she is forced flat onto the mattress. He places one knee over and shoves her crudely to lie straight between the pillow before slamming her hands onto the bars of the bed. There are no screams of fear or protest from her mouth, but small whispered grunts as she slightly squirms beneath him instead. 

It would have been so fun to break her, to strip her from her tightened control and expand her range of emotions to new heights of fear and suffering. But time is not his ally and he imagines it would take more than a few hours.  

With wrists so slender he manages to easily subdue her with one hand. Ingvild sucks her breath, watching as the large man hovers above her, appearing much larger and stronger than he did before. If not for her injury, she would have fought him and flipped him over before he knew it but he disarmed her without difficulty. He made her weak and it only makes her heart throb and her skin crawl with tingling anger.    

“Don’t try to fight me, it’s not gonna help,” he warns her as he reaches one lengthy arm to the nightstand where remnants of the rope are hidden. 

“Convenient,” she teases fearlessly and watches as he moves back and slings the rope over the bars and around her hands several times. His hand tugs at the binds, making sure it’s tight enough to make her hands turn white due to the blood circulation being cut off. The rope hurts her skin, her fingers splay succumbing to the pain and a small moan leaves her lush pink lips.

There it was, the sound he’s been waiting to hear all day long. She’s yielding to her suffering, letting the pain flow through her form. Letting go of the binds, his hand moves to hover above her face, the phantom of a memory of those same eyes soaked in pleasure in his mind. Ingvild stares back silently, yet the bemusement in her eyes is distinguished. She looks like an animal, unsure and untrusting of the predator who stands before her.

August allows his thumb to stroke her cheek, feeling the small flinch beneath the tip of his finger. He traces the outline of her jaw, giving her a small hazy grin. His lips inch closer to hers, his eyes shutting as he visibly inhales the scent of her body. “Don’t provoke me angel, I won’t stop even if you cry.”   

Her eyes focus on the freckles at his nose, secretly counting them before her gaze drops to his lips, studying the shape beneath the coarse hair of his moustache. August awaits for that rewarding expression of fear to shadow her face yet she gives him not an inch of vulnerability. Twice he had the empty pit that is her soul naked. Once at the lake, the other in the shower. This is a woman he saw in two of her very worst moments in life yet her composure is a desert of ice. 

“Huh…” He huffs with intrigue and shifts away from the bed, leaving her captive and helpless with pain building in her wrists.

“Where are you heading next?” Ingvild teases, knowing she will not receive a solid answer. Her eyes follow August as he rushes through the room, trying to learn every detail that may provide a hint of where he is heading next.

Ignoring her he grabs the leather traveling bag, placing it on the desk and pausing as he begins to carefully calculate his steps. The sun highlights his tall frame as he stands still. Ingvild stares at how the light makes him look golden and almost god-like. 

“Will you just leave poor little me like this?” She asks with false sweetness on her tongue, her hands tugging  the ties fruitlessly, making the bars shake and the pain in her wrists worse with the friction of the rope cutting into her skin.

August chuckles, turning to look at her as she attempts to provoke him. “Don’t worry love, housekeeping will pick you up at one point.”

He collects every item meticulously, sweeping through the room to make sure nothing is forgotten. The room appears more tidy and organized than it was before he walked in, except of course, for the half-naked woman tied to the bed posts. 

I’m sure it will make for some hilarious stories among the hotel staff. 

His mobile phone buzzes, a message from Knight_of_Darkn3ss has been received. 

“Fucking idiotic nerd name.” He mutters and shakes his head as he opens the message:

“I have arranged an exit point for you. The Love boat leaves in 2 hours. Better hurry, Lark.” 

“I’ll keep coming after you, Walker Texas Ranger…” She sounds peaceful as she makes her threat, as if she’s speaking politely of the weather or asking him about his day. “I always finish a job.”

He slips the phone back into his pocket and turns to stare at the girl who is no longer afraid to die. Now vamping with death instead, she lies relaxed in the sun-shower of the bed, surrounded by a sea of white sheets with red floral patterns. They look more like splatters of blood from where he is standing.

She doesn’t fight the bind that holds her anymore, remaining calm with her hands above her head like a sacrifice.

“Should I have left you to die then?” August asks darkly, making his advance toward her with long, heavy strides. His eyes are shadowed with lust for the kill, like a hunter that hunts for sport. He hovers above her once more, staring deep into those icy grey eyes. 

“I wanted to grant you the gift of always knowing I took your life and gave it back.” He answers cruelly, and bites his lower lip. His hand hovers over her form, moving like a maddened composer. “Enjoy whatever life I gave you, sweet Ingvild. Don’t play the hero and try to save the world, or try chasing me. I won’t be merciful next time.”

A cold grin begins to spread across her face, slowly growing into vile laughter that thunders in his ears. “I don’t care if this world burns, let it go to ashes.” She stares at him sincerely, her grin now replaced by a determined hateful glare.

“All I care about is the job. I will terminate you.” 

The world was indeed in her last concern. It was never kind to her and she cared very little about the stupid people who harboured it and even less about the ugliness and toxicity that it stenched from. Her only concern in life was to never fail a mission. And Liam, who was the only person she had what she believed to be a relationship of some sort. 

Bewildered and impressed by her brutal honesty, he nearly allows himself to fall deeper into the trap that is being offered in front of him. The temptation to delve deeper and seek those vulnerabilities, to rip her to shreds now when she is in her weakest moments. But he clears his mind from thoughts, forbidding them to pester him of ghosts from his previous life. He is a man on a mission and now he must leave the girl behind.

“Farewell, dear Ingvild.” 

Ingvild watches carefully, trying to comprehend his actions as he crouches above her, imprisoning her square chin with his forceful fingers. As he sinks closer, his breath caresses her skin, and she smells the scent of coffee and cologne mixed with his natural musk. Her heartbeats become abnormal, as if preparing her body for battle. She tries to escape his grip as his fingers travel to her throat, realizing he means to snap her neck. 

But instead she is assaulted by the tender brush of his lips, slow and feather-like they land onto hers. August feels a delicacy so tender that his instinct is to sink his teeth in it. Yet he reverts from it, pulling away before these thoughts grow into actions.  

Silence takes the room as he departs, making strong hasty strides while grabbing his traveling bag. Ingvild watches how his long coat flings in the air like a cape of a villain as he hurries to the door. He doesn’t look back, not even when he shuts the door, leaving her alone in the room with her lips tingling.

*~*~*

It took nearly 20 minutes to fight for her freedom. She tugged, pushed, and tore off the skin from her wrists until the wooden bars gave in before her hands did. At one point she felt as if she was close to blacking out. She was injured, starved, and dehydrated yet she endured. Adrenaline is spiking liquid in the tendons of her throat, keeping her fighting like a berserker.

Being beaten was a physical concept she never experienced before. She got her ass kicked in the past, during training, during a combat. But she won and bested every target. Even Liam who was heavier and skilled eventually fell on his back with her heel shoved onto his chest.

August Walker taught her the true meaning of failure and lack of control. The more thoughts of killing him sprang in her mind, the more it felt like butterflies that were locked fluttering in her chest.     

Dressed in her still damp suit and a pair of gloves, she unlocks the door to her apartment with a meek hand. She’s not so surprised to find Liam sitting on her couch with a look of disdain on his face, not even bothering to look concerned at her sickly pallor. 

She gives him an odd glare as she shuts the door behind her. “Were you waiting here all day long with the same face and didn’t move until the moment I walked in, or did you time this?”

“Where the hell were you? I couldn’t call or trace you,” Liam ignores her joke, giving her a stern glare while quickly observing her messy appearance. “This isn’t like you, Ingvild, you are not clumsy.” 

“I dropped my phone into the toilet while I was on a date,” she teases again, shaking her head at him with fake disbelief and then throws her key at the stand near the door. August’s folder is on the coffee table in the living room, just where she left it before leaving on her failed mission. 

She ignores Liam’s unsatisfied face, bouncing on her feet lightly and then sitting down next to the coffee table while grabbing the file to reread it.

Liam glares at her with a clenched jaw, his lips stretched to a thin line while he looks at the girl as she acts so juvenile. Legs crossed together while her eyes sift through the documents urgently, she tries to find anything that will give a clue.  

“You think this is a game? You know the terms of your contract, don’t make me remind you what happens if you fail.” He looks at her, reminded of the day he collected her from the orphanage, a weird little girl with a murderous look on her face. Much of her remained the same. The ability to know what really went through that complicated mind of hers was impossible..She was blocked, incapable of feeling anything but starvation in her heart. He only assumed it was for violence.   

“I want to read his manifesto,” she lifts her gaze to meet Liam's face. Curiosity is shining on her weary eyes. “Why was it not in the file?”

The older man shrugs, curling his mouth. “Sloane didn’t include it. It’s irrelevant to your mission. Have you made any progress in tracking him?”  

“I was naked in bed with him,” she answers nonchalantly, giving him a fake smile and then returning her eyes to the section on the file that mentions his past relationships. Her finger travels down through the list, mouthing the names of his many conquests. No wonder they called him “The Hammer”. There were so many of them. 

“Are you going to answer me, Ingi?” 

“I need a new phone and I need to get to England tonight if possible.” She finally answers, closing the file and jumping to her feet which she immediately regrets for the astonishing pain in her torso. All day long, since the moment she opened her eyes to find herself in August’s bed, all she wanted to do was throw up from the pain and scream into a pillow. 

Liam gets up from his seat as well, the older man towering above her and taking a step forward while studying the determination on her face. “What’s in London, girl?” 

“A lead.”    

_____________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I do not own Mission Impossible and August Walker!

[dex-xe]

Regarding the ficlet ideas :)

You don't have to do all or even any of these, these are just the things that popped into my head when I was scrolling through! Also if you want to write them romantically you do it, we love and support youuu!!!

Fluff: 7 (Mary and Robin, probably platonic) & 10 (Mary and Kitty, also probably platonic)

General: 18 (Julian and literally anyone, it'll be hilarious)

And General 45. With Alison and Cap (and maybe all the other ghosts) becuase I feel you'd write it really sweetly and honestly it's a scene I'd really like to see

Alison & Captain General #45: “Are you afraid to die?”

So there’s still one more prompt from this person (the Julian one) but I’m combining it with other ideas so expect that soon!! The others have also been done here:

Fluff #7

Fluff #10

But yeah,, this got no interaction at all on AO3 but that’s okay cause I actually really enjoyed writing this one there are some good lines I think. Let me know what you think either here on on AO3 I don’t mind. (Also there is a Doctor Who reference in here but I can’t remember which episode it’s from so if yall find it let me know XD)

TW:// in depth discussions of death.

The dark ceiling of Alison’s bedroom swirled in front of her as she listened to the soft rumbling of her husband’s snores beside her. The glowing red lights of her alarm clock served as a warning to her impending sleepless night: 2:15am.

Worries of life and family and the hotel and the unusual presence of 20 odd dead people inhabiting her home raced through her head as she begged for some kind of distraction from her thoughts. She tried not to set too many rules for the ghosts: whenever she did, they would work even harder to break every written order she laid down - and also every unwritten rule that common sense laid down. But one rule Alison was strict on was their nighttime curfew: do what you want around the house (as long as it doesn’t make too much noise, mess or irritance) but do not, under any circumstance, enter the master bedroom.

She’d originally given them the usual “only in emergencies” protocol but, after Robin had scared Alison out of bed at 4am having deemed a fat ginger cat on the front lawn an emergency, this had quickly been scrapped. But watching the dust flow through beams of moonlight while contemplating every life decision she’d ever made, the prospect of some inconceivable disaster interrupting the ghosts’ eternal deaths was seeming ever more pleasurable.

Alison sighed and sat up to look over Mike deep in sleep, jealous of his peaceful snoring. She swung off the bed being careful not to jostle the sheets but flinched at the freezing floorboards touching her bare feet. She tiptoed slowly through the empty corridors occasionally stopping to listen at the doors of the ghosts’ bedrooms: quiet snoring from Pat’s, mumbled sleep talking from Kitty’s, total silence on behalf of the others.

Every common room lay vacant, excluding Robin curled up in front of the dying fire, so Alison continued on to the kitchen - taking Nigel’s advice to fetch some milk when she’s stressed.

Upon entering the kitchen, she was taken aback to find it was not as empty as the rest of the house would suggest. Leaning back against the far tiled wall with his eyes shut and head resting back on the cold surface, the Captain looked as if he could be asleep standing upright. His eyes snapped open and settled straight on Alison frozen in the doorway. He blinked slowly before darting towards the corner of the room in his usual long-legged, gangly run.

“Captain?” Alison called as he turned away from her. “No, no! It’s alright!”

The Captain stopped. Still. Silent. In a moment of alarming quietness.

“Sorry for disturbing you, Captain. I’ll only be a moment!” Alison said quietly, making her way over to the fridge. “God, I hope Robin isn’t in here.” She pulled open the door with great gusto, fleetingly thrilled by the presence of broccoli, strawberry yoghurt, and half a pasta bake rather than the shouting menace of a caveman.

She shut the door with the milk carton in hand and turned to find the Captain still facing the wall, breathing heavily in what appeared to be a WW2 remake of the Blair Witch Project.

“You can just go back to… whatever you were doing, now,” Alison took a swig from the carton. “Plotting your latest hair-brained scheme to get rid of me?”

“Now, now, Alison,” the Captain said, turning back around to face her and swaying ever so slightly on his heels, stick gripped tight behind him. “I’m less inclined to dispose of you nowadays.”

“Yeah?” Alison raised her eyebrows with a knowing glance and took another sip. “Well, I appreciate that, Cap.”

“Hmm,” the Captain agreed.

“Why are you awake then? Are you awake or do ghosts sleep upright against a wall? Is this some mechanic I don’t know about? Do ghosts have to sleep?” Alison asked rapid fire.

“Of course we sleep! What did you think we do during the night?” The Captain pointed to Alison’s milk and frowned. “You shouldn’t drink it like that. That’s how disease spreads.

“It’s only me that uses it, just don’t tell Fanny, yeah?”

“Mum’s the word,” he murmured.

Alison smiled. “So why are you up, then? Shouldn’t you be getting that beauty sleep?”

“Sometimes it’s a little difficult to drift off, I’m sure you understand that being awake at this hour too.”

“Oh yeah,” Alison said quietly. She lifted her carton up in a small gesture of cheers and made a move to leave. “Well, got my milk. I guess… I’ll just head back to bed then. Good night, Captain.” She had barely made it out of the door before the Captain spoke up once more.

“You could stay for a while,” the Captain said. “If you wanted to. I mean, if you didn’t want to just lay in bed gazing at the ceiling.”

“I’d like that,” Alison pulled out the chair closest, scraping the legs across the tiled floor and interrupting the silence of the house. She left the chair open for the Captain and moved to sit opposite him, settling into the quiet comfort.

“Isn’t it weird to think the dead sleep?” Alison commented. “Doesn’t seem right, does it? Cause sleeping is a bit like being dead only without the commitment so it’s like you’re kind of double dead.”

“Death is nothing like sleeping, Alison. Don’t talk to me about death if you don’t understand it.” The Captain sniffed at her and leant back in his chair maintaining his usual stoic exterior.

“Sorry,” Alison said. “I didn’t mean-,”

“It’s fine,” the Captain said quickly. The pair fell back into silence, they had never exactly been the closest of friends and Alison certainly wouldn’t describe him as her best (undead) friend but they were friend-ly, for sure. Certainly more now that he’d ceased trying to drive her from the house at every opportunity that presented itself. Then again, death does strange things to people, Alison thought, her friends had proved that much. They showed little regard for the lives of the living, thinking very much of themselves and the Captain was surely the embodiment of that.

“It’s not awful, as such,” the Captain interrupted the quiet. Alison looked up from the table to find him watching her intently. “Death. It’s not as terrible as you might think. I know that’s what you were going to ask.”

“Oh,” Alison said. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t actually going to say anything.”

“I know. But you were thinking it.” The Captain said. “You’re in a rather unique position, Alison, I must say. Not many people can say they have a good understanding of death before it happens, but you know more than most.”

“I still don’t really get it, though,” Alison admitted drawing lines across the table with her fingers.

“If I’m telling the truth, neither do I,” the Captain confessed. “I don’t remember it too well. It was like- like falling asleep and then immediately waking up again. You know that plummeting feeling  that happens right as you’re about to drop into sleep, like everything is calm and then suddenly you’re losing grip of reality, and then you’re wide awake again.”

“A hypnic jerk,” Alison quipped.

“Sorry?” He asked.

“That’s what it’s called, that falling thing. A hypnic jerk.” Alison said. “We did it in science class, I think. Your body thinks it’s dying so it does the jerk to make sure that you’re still alive. Makes sense that’s what dying feels like, I guess.”

“Are you afraid to die, Alison?” The question took Alison by surprise, it was unlike the Captain to be open about his emotions and even more unlikely for him to ask about others’ feelings.

“If I have to stay with this rowdy lot for eternity, then yes definitely,” Alison joked with a small laugh.

The Captain smiled and hummed in agreement: “Oh I’m sure I’d have agreed if given the choice before death. Not exactly the most peaceful post-death existence.”

“I’m a little bit scared,” Alison admitted.

“You shouldn’t be too worried, it’s not all that bad,” the Captain said with a shrug.

“Yeah, because you seem to be having a blast with your afterlife, Cap. Happy as Larry,” Alison said sarcastically, she threw the now-empty carton into the bin beside her and settled back towards the table, leaning forward closer to the Captain - their faces barely inches apart.

The Captain paused, his eyes boring into Alison’s sleepy face before he leant forward to match her and whisper in secret confidence.

“It is rather bad,” he reneged. “You should fear it, well done for being scared.” Alison chuckled. “Well thanks, Cap! I feel so much better now!”

“Now, you know that’s not what I mean,” the Captain said slowly, unsure of where he was going next. “As long as you die here, you have no reason to be afraid. We’ll care for you in death as you have for us in life. Be sure, Alison, we’ll teach you all we know.”

“You know, Julian has told me the ‘teachings’ you gave him when he died,” Alison chuckled.

“Somebody needed to give that scoundrel a good telling off; heaven knows no one in life ever did. Julian died much as he lived: with an air of superiority.” The Captain coughed and smirked across at Alison. “He waltzed in here as if he owned the place, demanding authority and respect and, as far as I’m concerned, those are qualities that are earned.”

“Like you?” Alison said pointedly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Did you earn the authority you have over the others?”

“That is beyond the point.” The Captain stated. “You’re rather lucky, Alison! You’ve met a somewhat tempered version of Julian, he’s actually rather bearable these days, likeable sometimes, you wouldn’t believe him in the early days.”

“Oh I can only imagine! And I’m better then, I assume? Seeing as I’m deemed worthy of your afterlife teachings?” Alison laughed.

“Indeed,” the Captain said.

“Were you afraid?” Alison asked. “Of death, I mean? Obviously like, before it happened.”

“No,” the Captain shrugged, finally heeling away from Alison and breaking their close eye contact. “A soldier is never afraid. When you enlist to serve for your country, you relinquish any right to fear your death. Service kills many who enter, you cannot fear the inevitable.”

“But you didn’t die in service?”

“I was a soldier. No matter if my demise happened during the war or 60 years later, I lived a soldier and I died a soldier.” The Captain said certainly. Whenever he spoke of his time in the military he straightened right up and masked any kind of emotion he had allowed to trickle through.

“Now that you’re not a soldier then, are you afraid of… you know, moving on?”

“Of being sucked off?” The Captain clarified.

“I refuse to say that,” Alison shook her head. “And frankly it’s cruel that Julian has kept this joke up. But are you scared?”

“I am still a soldier, Alison. I’ll always be a soldier.”

“Time has moved on, no more fighting and no more soldiers but you know that, Captain.”

“Doesn’t change anything. Time.” The Captain said, matter of fact. The darkness of the kitchen mostly shrouded his face but Alison could easily make out the outline of his sharp features and piercing eyes.

“Time changes everything.” She stated. “You should know that better than most.”

“I’m a soldier.” He repeated, mumbling it under his breath like a reassuring mantra. “For King and country.”

“Queen.” Alison corrected.

Allowing himself, for just a moment, to relinquish his solid, iron-clad grip on the past, the Captain softly whispered: “For Queen and country.”

[errthel]

I have risen up from the dead for the holidays to give this gift (Route Two : Part 6)

Hey man, wassup, how's life? I dunno what to say, I'm a terrible Santa. I put in more time into this chapter than the other chapters (in the spirit of preholiday break procrastination) so I hope you like this gift. This is derived for the amazing @tri3tri 's SW AU and I just thank her for creating such vivid and lovely AUs which I can immerse myself in, I loved the recent AU, Dead MC, a very nice one indeed. So I guess I will leave now so you can enjoy your reading time in peace ♡♡♡♡♡♡

Lucien’s mind was a maze. Every twist and turn, every dead end taunted him, like a defenseless child taunted by their cruel relatives. His frustration knew no bounds when he failed to exit the maze, but that anger was soon replaced by something far more sinister.

The numbing sear on his body felt as if his body was suffocated when he slept. His appendages were like cooked pasta, limp and unruly. Breaths that were like that of an athlete who had run a marathon filled the room at lightning speed. The degradation of his vision forced the boy to squint but even that proved to be ineffective when blobs of different colors was all that filled his vision. Lucien could no longer feel the beat of his heart, his lungs wouldn’t budge and supply him with air. He felt his eyelids droop lower and lower in an agonizingly slow pace until they finally reached their destination. The room fell into a hushed silence, like the prior noise never happened, it was peaceful like a field of flowers on a cliff.

~

For her, time wasn’t a constriction, she had lived long enough to no longer fear the obnoxious concept of time. She lives alongside time. She is time. As long as time exists, she will live and be indifferent to time. Her hourglass will forever be reversed again and again when the sand trickled to the bottom.

But her long life no longer gave her any thrill, she lives in a kingdom where war no longer ensues in its borders and she has been reduced to a routine of nothingness. Until the woman with flowing (h/c) hair and blazing (e/c) eyes came years ago. The woman who was her granddaughter-in-law was an untameable dog who very much was the one who her dear grandson loved with all his heart. 

The sour taste in her mouth left her itching to tame the woman until she was the perfect lover for her grandson.

The sour taste in her mouth was satiated when the woman was on her knees along with her daughters, her confidence was cracking.

She was almost perfect.

Maleficent looked back to those recent memories and scoffed, what was she thinking? (MC) hadn’t changed even with a decade of taming, she truly was an untamable dog. She  sat on a chair that was as black as the abyss of space. In her unlit room, she was like a viper ready to strike at anything that disturbed her.

Her peace however is disrupted by a wave of magic. Her eyes quickly focused on the magic and tried to discern what kind of magic dared to make its way into the Valley of Thorns. Once she figured out what magic it was, her cackling reached the throne room as her bright green flames engulfed her room. She called in a meeting with all the high ranking nobles of The Valley of Thorns.

~

Her room was as gloomy as it was large, floor to ceiling window panes let in as much natural light as the rainy day allowed. She sighed, he was having another tantrum from their one-sided conversation in the morning. 

Her black dress was almost as beautiful as the woman who wore it. The dress was a two piece dress consisting of a bodice and a skirt. The woman's bodice was luxurious, even if it was done in a black fabric, delicate embroidery in black thread was littered across the bodice, while her two layered scalloped bertha collar was created with a sheer black fabric. A large skirt supported by a steel crinoline accentuated her waist as the corset helped to hold up her large skirt. She also wore a black veil, as if she was mourning for someone.

“Mother, long time no see.” Sherry’s somewhat cheery voice announced her presence

“How are you Sherry?” hearing her mother’s question brought the teenager joy as she happily sat on the sofa and talked about how she was feeling

“Hello Mother.” a stoic voice called out to the woman as she walked into the room

Sherry’s green eyes flicked over to Renata who seemed like she walked to the depths of hell and back.

“Yo Renata! You look like you're about to drop.”

“I do very much feel like that.” Renata sighs as she plops herself down to the sofa next to Sherry

“When you’re tired, sleep my dear.” 

“Mhm”

“Renata, did you?” (M/c) asked the black haired teen who nodded in agreement

“Mhm, I already did.” Renata said, referring to a magic spell which allows nobody to eavesdrop on their conversations

“I can feel that something will happen.” 

Sherry and Renata looked at their mother with confused looks, “What will happen?” Sherry said breaking the confusion

“Lucien is here in Twisted Wonderland.” 

“You’re joking!” Renata said looking at her

“The kid’s finally here huh.”

“We still aren’t ready.”

“Don’t worry, where do you think we live? Even if the Valley of Thorns continues to invade countries near it, this kingdom will always be isolated.” 

But her statement was disputed with the wave of magic that engulfed the room and brought the three ladies to panic. The magic was like a hurricane that knocked the breath out of their lungs and gave them excruciating pain by doing so.

“This magic! How is it so strong!” Sherry said trying to breath 

“No way. This is a finishing stage of transformation magic!” Renata said making (M/c) look at the window with surprised eyes

“Lucien…”

~

His face was like an unkempt garden and cottage, bellflowers and catmint littered the ground, sullen from the cold atmosphere. The yellow straw of the cottage roof looked disheveled as if it barely survived a violent snowstorm. That was the appearance of Briar Rome as he sat on the intolerably cold and hard stool that seemed jutt into his tailbone. His purple eyes that seemed to always give the person staring into them the warm feeling of spring, instead looked dejected, regretful, downcast, miserable, and just plain sad. Briar’s wheat colored hair was like sad damp straw, a victim of the recent and sudden storm that glazed Royal Sword Academy for a few hours. 

His pale hands held a hand larger than his own, the nails were a menacing black that glossed under the light of the infirmary. His eyes trailed up to the person’s pale face, the person had (h/c) hair that was like the clouds in the great big sky and his horns were two skyscrapers that disrupted the beautiful view. His silk-like fringe was brushed to the side to reveal a threatening yet alluring pattern of black scales that started in between his forehead and hairline. The ornate design strangely complemented the boy. He looked at the white robe his friend wore and grimaced, he should have known that he was sick or hurting earlier, when he heard that Lucien was the one who had unconsciously casted the tragic storm while also suffering from his transformation, he felt like a thousand needles had pricked him at the same time.

A light groan felt like the bang of a sudden firework to Briar, it felt like seeing the light at the end of a dark and long tunnel. His breath hitched as if his mind stopped working for a moment and he stood up and shouted for a nurse when he finally had a grasp on what was happening. Like swifts, a pair of nurses entered the room, one ushering Briar out, to his dismay, while the other tended to the now semi-conscious Lucien. 

~

The room was like Antarctica to (M/c), frigid and deathly silent. Her eyes trailed to the imposing figure that sat upon a throne of thorns. Like a paperweight weighing down everyone with a rule of silence, Maleficent observed the court, everybody was here, save for the Crown Prince, he wasn't necessary.

She sat on a throne on the right of her husband while Bellatrix sat beside Maleficent on her left. Her children were separated from their mother as they sat on their respective chairs as the High Court Magician and Supreme General.

"I hope I wasn't the only one who felt it, I'd be disappointed if I was." she haughtily said looking at the court of high ranking nobles

Words of confirmation echoed in the large hall and Maleficent steadily raised her staff and pointed to Renata.

"High Court Magician, elaborate further." 

Renata stood up and explained, "The magic that came across the Valley of Thorns is quite unique." 

Some chatter was heard among the nobles, they weren't really surprised, if anything, they probably weren't listening. Why should they listen to a half-human princess? It was probably through pure luck that she was able to get that position, probably by asking the vile queen.

Renata silently clenched her teeth and sucked it in and continued, "The magic is transforming magic, more specifically, dark fae transformation magic."

Gasps were heard in the court while a noble stood up to object the sayings of the High Court Magician.

"Your Highnesses! How can we be so sure about what she says!"

Renata looked at the man and clicked her tongue, Muave Heighgroove. What a joke, she sat down, deeming it unnecessary to stand up 

"What do you mean?" Malleus said in a hoarse voice 

"Your Highness! We don't know for sure if she is lying."

"Faes can't lie." Malleus says passively 

The fact that the king didn't respond aggressively blew Muave up like a puffer fish with pride. 

"Well, with the princesses being half-"

His claim was cut short by Maleficent who just laughed, no cackled, like a dying goat. She was beyond amused. Maleficent looked Muave straight in the eyes.

"That girl is plenty capable in discerning what magic it was. Honestly, I wonder how you all are part of the royal court."

Clean and swift.

Renata stood up and displayed her utmost gratitude and explained the magic even more.

"The circumstances are very unique when we consider this case, in case you happened to forget, transformation potions and anything regarding transformation is illegal in most kingdoms unless it is their Unique Magic, not in the Valley of Thorns though. But even then, transformation magic, especially for a dark fae transformation, is still hard to obtain here as it's distribution is under the jurisdiction of the Former Queen. So Your Highness, were you the one who gave some without the court's knowledge."

Renata was as cruel as she was realistic, her eyes were gleaming as they stared at the great-grandmother's dragon eyes. She was only stating facts and asking the correct questions to the correct people. A perfect smile was displayed on her face, whether or not the smile had other motives was unknown.

"I see, no I didn't."

"Thank you for answering Your Highness. To be honest that was just a formality, I can say with the nature of the magic, the transformation wasn't necessarily done by a spell or a potion."

"Was it a Unique Magic?" Bellatrix said looking at the magician

"Not necessarily, you can say it was a late metamorphosis. Even so, the nature of this transformation is very unique, it may take months of research before a solid reason is formulated. Of course that's if I don't go there myself."

"!!!" Malleus looked at his daughter, her black hair was perfectly sculpted showing off her scaly pattern on her forehead

"The magic came from the north-west, very likely from the Royal Sword Academy region. So My King, My Queen, allow me to go."

"I will have to decline this request, Head Court Magician." Malleus said exasperated while (M/c) looked at Renata, her dark veil shadowing her features

"I will give my permission." 

Malleus shot a look at (M/c), who only scoffed and said, "It will be beneficial to the Valley of Thorns, if we nurture the transformed, they can do our bidding as a payback for teaching them how to control their powers as a dark fae."

"How will you know that they will be beneficial."

His only answer was a chuckle.

[jjba-hell]

Unforgiven

Alright, here it is- my debut! I tried to model this as close to canon but doing research post-writing proved me wrong. I didn’t think I’d be able to adjust my writing accordingly so I’m sticking with what I did.

Prompt chosen: Backstory

Some trigger warnings before we get into it: Canon typical violence, death, grief, suicide (if you squint). I mean if you know Risotto’s backstory you know it’s pretty harsh. If I missed some, let me know- I’m new.

Tagging @risottoneroo​ because I thirst for their Risotto content.

2,3 K words (yikes, I know)

They had done everything for him in the ambulance. Or at least that was what Risotto had seen. It was a hit and run- damn bastard. Maybe the driver was so drunk out of his mind that he didn’t even care. Regardless it was Risotto who was kneeling beside his cousin’s body in the street to try and stop the bleeding while fumbling with his phone to call for an ambulance.

Risotto sat bouncing his leg in the emergency room as his cousin was going under the knife in an attempt at retrieving his life from the accident. The seconds on the clock above the receptionists’ desk didn’t even seem to move. Risotto had almost had the idea that the lack of movement was because the clock was broken. Until the seconds hand painfully lurched forward to sit in a new spot.

Go take off that shit right now.” His father hissed beside him.

The comment dragged him back to his surroundings and the other people waiting alongside him- his uncle, who seemed just as caught up with staring at the door they had rolled his son through and Risotto’s own father who was much too aware of the prying eyes that surrounded them and more specifically poised on Risotto’s appearance.

Risotto turned back to watching the seconds tick by, deeming the onlookers unimportant. But not even another second passed before his father hissed out another “Dante!” with much more anger.

Thinking back on his father Risotto doesn’t remember much of the man other than the similarities he held with Risotto at his current age. He knew he was going to be tall- his years of being a lanky teenager being a pretty good indicator but the bulk his father carried from his days in the army and at the family business only started making themselves known later in Risotto’s own life. He wasn’t quite going to let him get to him that easy.

“Luciano is fighting for his life on the operating table and all you can think of is what I look like? To other people?”

His father disapproved of the punk phase Risotto had gone through. In fact- he hid it from his father. It was his and his cousin’s secret life, one that had all at once been exposed and scrutinized on this night.

Risotto’s father squared his jaw before standing up, grabbing hold of the lapel of his son’s jacket- moving towards the restrooms.

“Maybe if you didn’t look like such a menace, people would feel some remorse for running you over.” He grumbled ober his shoulder at Risotto on their way there. He shoved him into the rest room and gave one more stern order.

“Take this shit off, Dante.”

Then disappeared back to the waiting room.

Risotto started by taking off his snake bites, looking himself in the mirror and wondering if they were thinking the same thing about Luciano in the operating room. Would they feel less remorse if they saw the metal in Luciano’s eyebrow, or his ear? Would they half-ass helping him pull through back to life if they saw him like his father saw Risotto?

He pocketed the piercings from his face and some of the wrist bands before turning his Metallica T-shirt inside out. He threw his jacket over his shoulder and was about to head out when the reality seemed to hit so much harder.

They had just come from a concert; it was why he was dressed up like the punk his father hated seeing. He and Luciano were just two teenagers taking a smoke under the lamppost three blocks away from home- thinking it would give them enough space to air out the smell of cigarettes before walking through their front doors.

Risotto lurched forward over the sink and couldn’t even bring anything up, just gagging up bile as his stomach convulsed.

This can’t be real. This can’t be real. This- I’m gonna wake up. It’s just a bad dream.

He splashed his face with the cold water from the tap and took hold of some paper towels to wipe off the experimental eyeliner.

When he walked back to the waiting room, he just wanted to disappear- away from the waiting eyes. He wanted- no, NEEDED- to be there for his cousin, even if it was just to hear them say “he’s pulled through” but his father’s words had planted a thought in his head that made him feel ashamed to even exist. He was stripped of all dignity, all that he felt comfortable in and he just wished he didn’t have to be seen anymore.

He sat down beside his father again, going back to bouncing his leg to watch the seconds sluggishly drag on until the doctor came through the doors.

Luciano’s father rose, frantically asking if his son had made it.

When the doctor started with the words, “Mr Armani, I’m sorry to say but your son-“ Risotto simply knew. From the way his heart felt like it was breaking down his chest to crash land at his heels.

His head felt heavy, dropping between his hands. Now, more than ever he didn’t want to be see- wanted to be at home shutting the door to his room to deal with all the grief he felt in his heart. But all he had was the privacy of his own hands.

Life moved around him for the next few hours, just walking and doing as he was told. He had gotten home and Rina- Risotto’s stepmother at the time- seemed to take pity on him, guiding him to his room where he just sat on the bed and stared at the wall in front of him.

This phase stretched well beyond the first few hours, moving towards days of not getting out of bed until Rina came to ease him out of bed with breakfast or into the bathroom to try and restore some kind of normalcy but it hurt. It hurt so much. This helplessness only lasted three days of course.

Eventually he was getting sick of being babied so he got up himself, leaving the house early in the morning for a jog around the block and then sitting in front of the kitchen counter for breakfast before either one of his parents could even bother getting up. He was gone the second they opened their bedroom door anyway- throwing his bag over his shoulder to wherever he could run to. Usually he just ended up waiting ungodly hours in the alleyways for the bus to take him to school.

“Hey, freak! Where’s your cousin?” A particular assholes asked as Risotto took a drag of his cigarette. Risotto gave a single glance his way before returning his gaze back to the cars running up and down the street.

A hand yanked him backwards by his shoulder and stole the cigarette from his hand.

“I’m talking to you, dumb ass! What? Can’t hear me from up there you freak?”

Risotto took one look at the guy, picked him up by his shoulders and slammed him against the wall- watching as he slid down the wall and crumbled into himself.

Risotto was about to spit more vitriol at him but instead gave a quick kick to the kid’s gut and walking out of the alley, holding back beating the shit out of the guy for the fear of being snitched on.

A different hand shot from around the corner of the alley, making Risotto stop at the edge of the alley and the walkway. The hand belonged to a strange sight in the middle of suburban Italy at 7 in the morning. Dressed in a well-tailored navy suit, a man only a head shorter than Risotto stopped him. “Not gonna finish the job, properly?”

He meant the dumbass in the alley. Risotto only shook his head as he moved past the hand that was holding him back- not even bothering to look at the guy that had stopped him.

He was about to cross the street to wait on the other side but the stranger called back. “It’s a shame what happened to your cousin.”

Risotto stood still in his tracks. “You do my know shit.”

“Don’t I? Luciano Armani died at the hospital Sunday morning after being being hit by drunk driver- you were the one that called the ambulance, Dante.”

Risotto knew his father and his uncle valued their privacy surrounding the situation- so he couldn’t help but be annoyed by the fact that this guy knew too much.

“What do you want?” Risotto asked over his shoulder-figuring this guy was some sleepy local reporter.

“Nothing really, not yet. But uhh-“ the man stuck out a business card with his name and number on it- nothing more. “Don’t be shy to call me when things go south for you.”

The thought suddenly struck him- mafioso. Sleezy bastard was probably trying to get him to do his dirty work for him- Luciano’s killer probably owed a debt to these guys.

Risotto took the card and surveyed the simple print. “What if I called the cops on you?”

The guy laughed. “Smart kid, but I’m afraid that would simply put more of your family members in their graves.”

And with a simple turn the guy disappeared down the street. Risotto pocketed the card, perhaps out of stupidity, perhaps out of curiosity but one thing was for sure.

He didn’t quite regret keeping it.

Rina had kept him in the loop in terms of what was going on with Luciano’s case as time went on. The police had caught the bastard that killed him and was currently constructing a case against him. For a moment, just a fraction of a moment, Risotto felt hopeful that perhaps there would be some justice for his cousin.

But it was overshadowed by the grief he felt as he helped clean up Luciano’s room, a few doors down from his parents’ house.

It was strange- the Armani brothers ran a business together but could never afford more than the two good homes in a good-ish neighborhood. The butchery was known for supplying most restaurants but butchers didn’t make that much money.

Risotto and his aunt were tasked with clearing up Luciano’s room which dragged all the memories of his cousin back to the forefront of his mind. Recalling the family dinners the two of them would duck out of for the sake of not having to babysit the younger cousins- in favor of an underground rock concert or just to play in the arcade nearby. Luciano did always have that one arcade token stuck in his back pocket he forgot to use, eventually turning into a “lucky” coin the two of them would jokingly hide in each other’s jacket pockets for whatever stupid reason.

Risotto found said token in one of the jean’s that he was folding up. He held Luciano’s passport a few hours later- feeling his stomach convulse at the sight of his birth date. 16. Luciano Armani was 16. Not even sure what he was going to do for the rest of his life- now it was a life he would never live.

Risotto never had siblings- his mother had passed shortly after his birth, he never even knew what a mother was. The closest thing to a mother he had was Luciano’s- his aunt. His father and uncle were more concerned with the butchery to care. Not much had changed on that front.

But a better brother than Luciano didn’t exist.

That was how Risotto knew him- the brother he’d turn to whenever his father would get aggressive after a few rounds of rum. The brother he went to when his father remarried. Even if Luciano couldn’t give him any solid advice, the distraction of going out and getting up to shit together was enough to overcome the isolation of his pain.

Tiredly, Risotto was sent back home by his grieving aunt. He didn’t even recall if the room was packed up completely.

It was the night before the funeral service and in the hot summer night Risotto clambered into a cold bath to help soothe the pain over his body. Perhaps he would never have been in the situation if he didn’t spend so much time at the school gym, on the track...

Rina had even drawn the bath for him, leaving the Epsom salt on the rim to add if he needed it.

Risotto opened his hand to see the coin he seemed to be holding onto the whole week. In the back of his mind he supposed it was him trying to draw some strength from it, as if it’s supposedly luck could help him through the pain.

With a deep breath he closed his hand around the coin and sunk his head underneath the water- asking for luck one more time.

At the funeral service Risotto said goodbye to the coin, tossing it on top of the first handfuls of dirt already sullying the polished wood coffin.

He thought it was acceptance he felt as he let the cool metal sentiment fall from his palm.

All of that was shattered when the trial for his killer came back as not-guilty.

Hearing the verdict made him feel like all grounding he had while climbing over his grief slipped right under him and he was undeniably plummeting.

Ending up in the inconceivable rage he still feels whenever he thinks back to how he ended up looming over the figure of the drunkard that killed his brother. He was so sick of waiting- sick of waiting for the doctor’s verdict, the jury’s verdict. They had all failed him that day, so he decided to take matters into his own hands.

The night the verdict was released, Risotto had called the mafioso, asking when they could meet for a talk.

He was straightforward about what he wanted- he wanted the man dead. If it meant doing it himself and being protected by them or if they wanted to off him themselves- he didn’t care.

They had shrugged and said they had no reason to kill him, but he’d need to go through two initiations to make the murder disappear.

The first was simple enough, kill the guy he wanted dead.

Risotto was too far gone to even care as he bludgeoned the guy to death with a crowbar, feeling the bastard’s blood splatter against his face in a warehouse not too far from the shore.

He wrapped the body up in plastic and duct tape and brought the body to the mafioso that had led him thus far.

“We’ll get the blood later.” The man smiled through cigarette smoke. The mafioso threw an arm around Risotto’s shoulder after he hauled the body into the trunk of the car.

“Now, for the hard part.”

Acquiring Metallica felt like a joke- mocking the part of himself he felt he’d never allow to be seen again, the part he and Luciano hid from the world. He figured the ability was for the sake of wanting to make other people feel the weakness they carried in their own blood and the invisibility was a gift- on he wanted to possess to escape from the eyes that surveyed him as he was in pain.

Normally, getting into the mafia acquired smaller crimes first, but since Risotto had started with murder he was assigned to join the hitman team- on one condition.

His family be left untouched.

He promised to sacrifice a cut of his pay for every month for years to assure they were never hurt again. It caused him to move into a dingy apartment after spending too much time on the couch of the hideout, but he didn’t care. He moved up quick enough not to care- most hitman don’t last over 30 years old anyway.

His father, Rina, his aunt, and uncle, all his younger cousins would be safe as long as he kept paying. It was, after all, he had left of Luciano. The smallest wad of cash was all physical reminder. But somehow it made him sleep a bit easier knowing they were safe. Only question that plagued his nightmares was if it was enough to redeem something of his soul.

[charliejrogers]

Under the Skin (2014) - Review

For a lot of science fiction movies, I find myself enjoying the ideas of the film more than I think I actually enjoyed the film. It’s what I’ll refer to as the Annihilation-syndrome, named after the 2018 movie that I found to be an absolute bore while also being an exceedingly intellectually stimulating discussion about the nature of cancer, mutation, and biology in general. The film I am reviewing now, 2014’s Under the Skin, honestly is nowhere near as unenjoyable as Annihilation, but I mention the film because I think much of this review will focus on the really interesting ideas this movie brought up which might make you think I thought this is a masterpiece. It’s not. It’s good, very good even, but not as good as its theme and ideas.

A lot of my restrained enthusiasm has to do with the fact that the film is purposefully cryptic and full of esoteric imagery. While there are spoken parts, I don’t think much would be lost if we couldn’t hear what was being said. That is to say, the dialogue doesn’t do much to make sense of what we are seeing displayed on screen.In fact, there are large sections of characters interacting without any dialogue, yet everything is understood.

To its credit, what we are seeing is largely very beautiful from a cinematography point of view. Much of the film takes place in the city of Edinbugh, Scotland and it captures well the urban grit of the city and how our protganoist fits well within that urban environment. The way the red lights of Edinburgh’s traffic lighst cast a foreboding, menacing band over the protagonist’s eyes as she drives about town on the hunt for men to ensnare in her trap shows that this dangerous character is right at home in the anonymity of the city.

The protagonist is played by Scarlett Johansson, who spends most of the film alternating between being the pinnacle of seduction in the eyes of the heterosexual male gaze and being a lifeless void. That’s because Johansson plays an alien (I think) or at the very least a humanoid being who seems to have the sole purpose of finding lonely men, taking them back to her lair, and trapping them in a sunken-place-like void where ultimately everything but their skin is extracted from them. I’ll henceforth refer to this character simply as “the humanoid” with she/her pronouns for clarity. We never learn the humanoid’s motivations, but we know that she’s not acting alone. She’s supported in her ventures by a (presumably) humanoid motorcycle gang who also double as agents who will clean up her messes.

At the beginning of the film, the humanoid appears to have no free will or consciousness. When she comes across her first dead body, she is more interested with the ant crawling along the body than the woman who used to inhabit that body. She simply steals that woman’s clothes, and begins acting out what seems like a pre-designed course for finding and trapping men. As soon as she has completed an interaction with a human, all of the emotion drains straight out of her face. Johansson’s face takes on a scary lifelessness on par with Billy Skarsgård’s Pennywise the clown from the It movies. There’s a scene where the humanoid, in the process of attracting a new victim, stumbles across an infant that has been abandoned at the beach and is screaming out. Perhaps the director is toying with audiences’ biases that the humanoid, appearing as she does as a human woman, will “naturally” want to reach out and save this baby. That she doesn’t seems to signal to the highest degree that this “woman” is no woman at all, but a cold, merciless something else.

Yet, somehow, by the end of this movie, I found all my sympathies lying entirely with this decidedly inhuman killing machine who makes her living preying on people just like me. This is because something happens that changes the humanoid about midway through the movie. Up to that point, it would be easy to classify the film as a feminist revenge fantasy, where men’s penchant for objectifying women and their aggressive desire to “conquer” women is met with a dish that is served so very coldly. It’s oddly satisfying to watch men who will blindly get into a car with a complete stranger and follow her into a creepy house just because they want to fuck her, end up being exposed as little more than skin around a bag of meat.

But then the humanoid comes across a man whose face deviates greatly from the norm due to some unnamed medical condition. It very much resembles the face of the protagonist from The Elephant Man. He is out an a walk at night to the grocery store. The humanoid doesn’t see him like the rest of the world does. She doesn’t understand how insensitive her genuine question about why he shops at night might be to him. In a darkly ironic sense, she’s the first person in his life to truly see him as a man and not a hideous monster. He has none of the arrogant sexual bravado like the humanoid’s prior victims. He’s sexually innocent, a virgin. When she offers to take him back to her place, he doesn’t take pride in any successful conquest. We see that he’s pinching himself just to prove that he’s not dreaming. It’s a heartbreaking sequence. Whereas we may have been on board, at least symbolically, with the humanoid’s cool takedown of the patriarchy, this particular abduction flips the script. Our sympathies lie more with the man than the “woman.”

Why he doesn’t succumb to the same fate as the other men is not clear. Notably, he’s the first we’ve seen that isn’t fully erect despite the humanoid ardent attempts at seduction. Secondly, he’s like the first to take some stock of the fact that he’s been lured into some black void from another dimension. He obviously finds Johansson attractive, but it’s almost like he is more amazed by what is happening, his penis “disarmed” so to speak, compared to those who came before him who were “armed” to conquer. And in lacking their sexual aggression, he was deemed to have a “lighter”, purer heart, preventing him from sinking into the deep of her trap.

This seems to change the humanoid. It’s as if she questions her whole purpose in life up to that point. Maybe all those men who had come before were as gentle as sweet as this one. Or maybe she yearns to be more than a monster.

Previously we had seen the humanoid stare at women from her car in much the same she looked at men, yet we never see her take women as a victim. It’s more like she was curious by these creatures, like she didn’t know they would be there. She shows the same curiosity towards her own body. She stares at it, hugs her curves. Just after her encounter with the man with the dysmorphic face, she looks long at her face in the mirror and then at a fly stuck to a window. It’s as if she’s looking at how she looks to others (humanoid) compared to what she really is (more like a bug, an alien). As the film goes on, it’s almost as if she’s trying to convince herself the skin is not a farce, that it’s really her, that she’s real, and that there’s nothing else under the skin. There’s an ironic beauty in the dysmorphic man wanting to be seen for what’s on the inside where she wants to be seen for her outside.

We subsequently see the humanoid undergo something of a coming-of-age as she flees into the more rural surroundings of the bogs of Scotland, presumably to avoid her motorcycle-driving allies who don’t want her to veer off course. The camera work in this part of the film highlights her as a stranger in this strange land, with her hot pink sweater standing in stark contrast to the drab Scottish milieu. And truly from the rocky/pebbly beach below the impossibly high bluffs at the ocean to the Mars-like desert shrubbery of the bogs, Scotland has never made Earth look so alien. Yet it’s in this foreign land, far from the trappings of the dirty city that the humanoid experiences the pleasure of being a human, or more specifically being a woman. For a few days she is even one man’s princess, and I think it confuses her so much that she enjoys it.

The genius of this film is the way it makes you forget that the humanoid isn’t actually human. In the latter half of the movie we celebrate her cautious steps towards humanity. There is a love scene that is among the most intimate I’ve seen filmed. Yet, we also fear for her and feel sorry for her when her fantasy comes crashing down and it is revealed to her and to us that her initial approach to men proves was much more appropriate.

This is a slow film that rewards patience, but ultimately it doesn’t do much to excite. There are abstract sequences of light and color accompanied by discordant sounds of chanting that seem straight out of the Jupiter sequence from 2001: A Space Odyssey. These do little more than confuse, and sometimes bore. And even if the lack of excitement is deliberate (perhaps intended to deconstruct female seduction) that doesn’t make it anymore enjoyable. Still, it is a beautifully shot picture that provides a stunning condemnation of our male dominated society. It would manage to make even the most bitter-hearted viewer feel sympathy for a humanoid who just a half-hour ago was on a cold-blooded murder streak. Still, even if it doesn’t introduce any hard-hitting questions about humanity like the best sci-fi, in the end it revels in a different dominant theme of sci-fi: no matter the monster man meets, man is always the ultimate monster.

 *** (Three out of four stars)

[sablesides-writing-corner]

cinderella, prinxiety? :))

"Virgil! Clean these dishes!"

"Virgil! Why havent you made breakfast yet!"

On and on and on went the nonsensical commands, pounding in Virgil's head like the inssesent beating of a drum. His stepbrothers had to be the absolute worst people he'd ever met, and his stepfather didnt fare any better. Always yelling at him to do one thing or another, he was terrified of even slightly screwing up. Virgil crawled out of bed with a groan and walked over to his dresser. After adorning what his stepfather deemed 'proper attire' he walked down stairs and grabbed a broom from the closet. He was halfway through work when his stepfather trudged down the stairs, clearly annoyed. Virgil braced himself, but as usually nothing could prepare him for his stepfather's wrath.

"You missed a spot." said the man.

Virgil's face stung, but he simply smiled and nodded "Yes father, sorry father," he said quietly, earning him another slap on the wrists. He tried not to flinch and continued cleaning the floors. He waited until he heard his stepfather's footsteps fade into the distance before letting silent tears fall down his face.

"Are you actually crying right now?" said someone behind him with a laugh. He turned to face his first stepbrother, Presley. "Goods gods you ARE pathetic." he said, stepping down the stairs, making sure to leave as much of an impression on them as possible, more work for Virgil he supposed.

"What do you require, Presley," said Virgil, his voice once again abnormally formal.

"Oh cut the crap you sad excuse for a human, Izzet and I require your assistance, our rooms are simply DREADFUL and we cant be expected to clean it all up!" Presley said, not even attempting to hide the smirk on his face, nor the menacing glint in his eyes. Virgil supposed the brothers had caused the mess themselves.

"Very well, I'll get to it as soon as I finish up with this," Virgil said, gesturing to the floors. His brother didnt seem pleased, he stormed back up the stairs, what Virgil suspected was mud splattered across them.

It took him what seemed like decades to finish every task assigned to him, every time one was accomplished his step family seemed to find another for him to do. By the time he got back up to his room in the attic it was already night fall. The mice and rats that lived in the floorboards had gathered around the fireplace, and proceeded to burrow into his apron as soon as he sat down.

Virgil didnt pride himself on his voice, he didnt pride himself on much of anything. But for a man who slept so near soot and ashes, his voice could have been enough to cause the heavens themselves to weep. Any chance he could find to sing, there he was, the words ready on his tongue for even the smallest moments of joy. The rodents adored it, which Virgil supposed was an improvement over what he could expect if his step family ever discovered this particular talent of his.

So Virgil sang, he poured his heart out for only the mice and rats and bugs to hear, blissfully unaware of the open window, and the runaway prince who had been out for a night time voyage, just close enough to hear the sweet music as it travelled through the air.

Virgil awoke the next morning to a loud knock on the door.

"Sort through the mail, we're busy," said his father. Virgil stood up and dusted himself off. Soot still clinged to his hair as he approached the door. He picked up the letters. As he sorted through them he noticed a very important looking wax seal on one, the royal crest.

"What's that? Who's that one for?" said Presley over Virgil's shoulder, before snatching the letter out of his hands and rushing off. Virgil followed after him and entered the kitchen doorway just in time to hear Presley and Izzet's shocked gasps upon viewing the contence.

"A ball?"

"The prince?"

"A husband?"

Virgil listened intently on the conversation, the gears in his head whirring and sputtering.

He finally spoke up when the conversation seemed to lull to a stop, "Do you think, I could go?" the glare his father gave him could've killed him in an instant, and the small smile that traced his face soon after offered no consolation.

"Of course, Virgil, as long as you remember to finish all your chores and find a suitable outfit, then you can go to the ball," he said, almost growling. Izzet and Presley exchanged looks, dumbstruck, until their thick skulls finally processed the sentence, then they broke into cruel smiles.

The demands started almost immeadietly, and they went on for eons, sometimes Virgil would complete the same task multiple times because something had gone wrong the moment he left the room, the poor boy felt as if he might explode at any moment.

The day finally ended, and Virgil hadnt found a single thing to wear, he hadnt had the time, nor the energy. He stumbled up to his room, ready to give up on any hope of being happy again in his life, but upon opening the door he was greeted with an unexpected surprise. A black suit with a purple ombre cape was set up on a mannequin in the room, the rats and mice were skittering around the room, appearently working further on the garment. Virgil felt tears in his eyes, but this time they were not sorrowful.

"You guys did all this for me?" he said to the small creatures scattering about the floor. They all looked up at him as if to respond with a yes, Virgil smiled. "Thank you, so much, I only hope its enough," said Virgil, before collapsing onto the bed.

He awoke the next day with a new found confidence, cape billowing behind him as he rushed down the stairs to join his father and brothers. But they looked absolutely appalled at the sight of him. Within mere seconds, the outfit his friends had probably worked so hard to get him, was reduced to scraps, his stepfamily cackling and snarling at him all while they ruined what he felt had been his only shot at happiness. He watched them leave for the ball, tears drenching his face. He walked out into the gardens and sat under a tree, the familiar feeling of emptiness washed over him.

"Why are you crying kiddo? Shouldn't you be at the ball?" said a voice Virgil didnt recognize. He looked up only to be faced with a short man with round glasses almost as big as his face.

"I cant go, I have nothing to wear and no way to get there, it's not like the prince would want anything to do with me Anyways, and dont try to tell me I'm wrong, I'll bet you barely even know me." said Virgil, the words burned like acid as they fell from his mouth.

"Nonsense! I'm your fairy godfather! I should think I know plenty of things about you!" said the man.

Virgil's eyes widened "Well what do you expect me to do? I cant fix this. . ." he sighed.

"Bring me a pumpkin, some mice, and a frog," said his fairy godfather. Virgil got up and completed the strange requests.

The fairy godfather took out a wand and began waving it over the various items, Virgil watched in awe as his mice turned into horses, the frog into a man, and the pumpkin into a carriage.

"Now, what to do about that dress," said his godfather. He pondered Virgil's tattered outfit for a moment before his eyes caught a sudden spark.

A flash of light and feeling of warmth enveloped Virgil, he let himself be consumed by it, an excited smile plastered across his face. When the light subsided Virgil was dressed in a black hooded dress-shirt, purple pants, and what seemed like black glass shoes.

"Now, all of this disappears at midnight, so you best leave before then, now hurry- go enjoy yourself," said his godfather, urging him into the carriage.

Virgil spent the entire ride to the castle marvelling at the scenery, and the view of the castle itself left him speechless.

Virgil had been off to the sidelines, singing to himself out in the castle gardens as he admired the flowers, when a hand fell over his own.

"You have a beautiful voice, you know," said the voice. Virgil turned around and was greeted by a man in a white and red suit embroidered with what may have been the brightest gold he'd ever seen. The man's eyes met Virgil's and he gave him a devilish grin.

"I was just uh, taking a break, I'm not the beat at parties," said Virgil, trying to sound calm.

The mysterious man took him by the hand, "Then perhaps you wouldnt mind dancing alone with me out here? It's much less noisy and crowded than the throne room," Virgil simply nodded and allowed himself to be lead into a slow dance, the world seemed to melt away as he and the man stared into eachothers eyes. His were so full of light and happiness, Virgil felt as if even the sun couldnt outshine them.

He was snapped out of his trance by the sudden chiming of a distant clock. It was then that he'd realized just how long they'd been dancing.

He broke away from the man's grasp "I have to go- I'm sorry-" before the man could even open his mouth Virgil had disappeared into the throne room again. He raced down the stairs, only to be momentarily inconvenienced by the loss of a shoe.

Virgil managed to get home with few issues, and he stayed up in his room until he'd fallen asleep, hoping to avoid awkward questions from his stepfamily.

He awoke the next day to the shadow of his stepfather looming over him- holding, to Virgil's horror, the second glass slipper. "Can you explain, why the day after an announcement about a mysterious young man with black glass slippers running away from the ball, I find this in your room?" he said, a wicked smile appearing on his face.

"I-I didnt- I'm not-" Virgil tried to explain himself but the words got caught in his throat.

"The prince is looking for the owner of this shoe, and I for one dont think it should be you that he finds with it. So while your brothers will be trying for a prince, you will stay up here." said his stepfather, walking out of the room with the shoe. Virgil tried to race after him, only to hear the door lock click. He collapsed to the floor in shock, his hand clutched to his chest. Tears ran down his face, he'd been dancing with the prince all night and hadnt even realized? He'd truly been that close to happily ever after and he'd thrown it away?

Virgil crawled over to the window and rested against it. Once again he began to sing, he heard the doors open downstairs, heard his father and brothers talking to the prince and his servants downstairs. He sung louder to drown them out, until he was so caught up in singing he could barely hear his own thoughts.

The thing that did, however, break this trance, was the opening of the door and the protests from his stepfather. Virgil snapped his head away from the window and stared at the sight before him, the prince, eyes wide, a smile broad across his face, standing in front of him.

"Its you. . . you were the man from last night. . . I recognize your singing," he said. Virgil turned to the window, he hadnt noticed that someone had opened it, the mice in the corner of the room seemed to nod at him as he stood up. He approached Prince Roman with hesitation, until the royal took him by the waist and held him closer than he'd every thought royalty would keep a simple servant. "I want those men in jail, they clearly havent been treating him properly," said Roman, waving a hand at Virgil's stepfamily.

"N-no, even they dont deserve that- perhaps exile would work better?" Virgil said, he had no idea why, he knew the three were guilty, but Roman simply smiled and nodded.

The castle seemed even more brilliant now than it had the night of the ball, perhaps it was Virgil's newfound happiness, or seeing Roman smiling at him as though he were a priceless gem. But for once in his life, Virgil felt happy, and he was never letting that feeling escape him again.

[hyperionswrath--archived]

@onepartbrave

“No,” came his automatic retort of pure, boneheaded defiance when questioned about his inability to behave. Amused by his own antics, a soft, half-smile formed aimlessly on his lips and Squall resumed keeping his attention on the hand he captured. Wasn’t like he could look Seifer in the eye presently as the blond’s forehead pressed against his shoulder, him reading a sense of urgency from the gesture. No… disorientation. Thorough, if it was anything like the rest of the night provided so far. He could relate—he was only keeping a reasonably level head from, one, not looking directly at the man presently, and two, copious loads of alcohol in his bloodstream.

When Seifer’s falsely apprehended hand moved in his grasp, Squall withdrew his hold slightly. His own pair didn’t wander far and he was thankful; a moment later, larger fingers entwined with his in a token so delicate, he momentarily forgot how to breathe. They had… never been gentle. Not one memory provided him with details of tenderness shared. Perhaps, in a sense, the blond helping prepare him for the horrors of the world was a nicety in itself, but physically, it had been nothing except harsh spars and even fiercer battles.

This… this was entirely new and that was more terrifying than any demons he’d faced prior.

Letting people into his heart backfired before and he was left alone, fractured, resulting in the apathetic loner he was before them. It had taken an impending calamity and relentless persistency for him to let them in, and after he still struggled to not revert. It was always the same, to this day. None had ever truly busted through…

…That’s wrong. He did. He always has.

Backtracking while his mind processed the image of him holding Seifer’s hand, other memories played like a movie for only him to see. Endless bickering, boastful taunting, always able to ignite a fire within otherwise icy eyes—Seifer had been the only one to provoke a constant reaction from him. Whether Squall showed it or not didn’t matter because the infuriating menace learned to read the slightest nuance in a ‘blank’ expression. The guy was never clueless on what he was feeling or, sometimes, even thought…

I just never saw it before… fuck.

While the revelation was shocking to an extent, Squall wasn’t overly stunned. More… relieved. Allayed the liquor hadn’t fashioned falsities in his head and all of his inner anguish was for a genuine reason. However, now he realised and accepted the logic, what was he to do with it? Sure, the toxicity in his veins might not have influenced his behaviour (with the exception of making him far too open and docile), what’s to say it hadn’t Seifer’s? Loathing as he was contemplating it… he didn’t want to become another body to warm anyone’s bed. On the other hand, the blond had been nothing but brutally honest with him since meeting yesterday (since him recalling their first meeting really…), so he deserved the benefits of any self-doubt. It wasn’t Seifer’s fault he hardly saw himself worth a ‘catch’, or whatever.

“…I’m not sure,” he responded eventually, quiet, tentative. Gaze pinned on their joined hands still, it was only tempted away at feeling faint gliding of the man’s other limb up, up, and up… until it stopped to coil supple digits in his hair. From lack of anyone else daring to brush fingers through his hair, the impact it had wrought a distinctive quiver through his form, running straight down his spine and leaving a tingle in its wake. He knew the definition of ‘touch-starved’ but with how clingy some of his friends were, never would’ve affixed the term with himself. Clearly, he was still learning new things about his character. Intriguing things. “I—I want—”

Timid all of a sudden, Squall’s train of thought cut off sharply as the heat in his face brightened tenfold. Certain he’d be glow in the dark soon, he couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the current object of his puzzling frustration. Really, he was a sucker for punishment sometimes because seeing that clueless yet anticipating face was worse. Swallowing thickly as his inhibitions fled, he maintained unwavering eye contact as he guided their united hands up at a leisurely pace until they were level with his shoulders. Throat feeling inexplicably dry, he wasn’t sure what possessed his next action was beyond his knowledge, but no regret surfaced, only respite.

Fearlessly, yet still donning a brilliant blush, he turned their hands around until the rear of Seifer’s was facing him and he ducked his head down to cross the slightest distance and pressed his lips there. Hesitant, entirely out of his element and second-guessing himself, but still no repentance.

“…I just dunno,” he repeated softly, then choosing to break the eye contact. Bashfulness running rampant through him, he lowered their interweaved hands to his lap and covered the man’s with his own. Absently, he pressed back against the one buried in his hair, too. “…Wha’ bout you?”

Huffing somewhere between exasperation and amusement, the blond shook his head when presented with the obvious denial of proper manners when commanding them. Willing to let it slide so long as the man sat still and didn't try to bail on him again for some ludicrous reason, he watched how infatuated the other seemed to be with his hand. Callused as it was from battles, wars, and holding weapons, the limbs were still slender, though not as delicate as the pale ones of his former rival. They were complete opposites in so many regards, even their lives had taken near to exact opposite directions every possible way. And still, here they were, close to each other, drawn to each other, much like the old saying that 'opposites attract'.

Was it that simple? Was that all behind why he just didn't seem to be remotely able to keep himself from the brunet? Having their hands entwined like this, it felt strangely warm, tingling wherever their skin touched, and he soon found his thumb drawing idle circles, enjoying the feel of smooth skin below his digit. The more he pondered on it, the more he realized he had never been gentle with anyone before. People where there to be used, as he was to be used in turn, there was no gentleness in that. Yet some part of him seemed eager to make up for all the things he had done in spite and vengefulness, all the hurt and pain he had caused, as laughable as it might seem to him.

Despite never having shared their thoughts on such matters - because why would they? - Seifer had a similar stance to letting people too close, allowing them to get under his skin and making himself vulnerable. He did not, however, shy away from being physical, both things usually completely separate things in his book. And still, right here, he did not pounce the brunet every chance he got with fierce flirtations but felt rather considerate, deeming it more important that his former rival felt safe and comfortable in their new-found closeness than to satiate a hunger that had been coiling inside him for decades.

Humming at the insecure statement in understanding, having thought as much, simultaneously aware of the slight shiver making the lithe body tremble when his fingers brushed through chocolate strands, he was for once the one patiently waiting. Well, outwardly at least. For inside he could feel the restlessness again, the urge to get closer, to have more of this. More blushing, more trembling, more of everything the brunet had to offer. Yet, he let the man ponder on his question, seeing in his face clear as day how his mind worked as if trying to come to grips with something.

And wasn't that crimson hue to high cheekbones the most gorgeous he had ever seen on porcelain features? That and what followed was enough to make Seifer hold his breath, allowing the other to move their hands, lifting them all the while holding his gaze prisoner with those stormy eyes full of intent. Plush lips grazing the barest, softest kiss on his hand, a gesture he'd usually mock and comment with a dismissive notion of not being the princess among the both of them, but right now all he could focus on was how innocent the gesture appeared to be. Which nudged an entirely different train of thought into motion. Shit... was the guy still a virgin? Or was he always this gentle?

Unable to hold that thought for too long, still staring with fascination into pale blue eyes that seemed, the longer he sank into them, to have a crystalline hint to them, he finally was able to let out the breath he'd been holding quietly if accompanied by a low hum. Faintly, the mere hint of a smile tugged on one corner of his lips as he, not without regret and reluctance, freed his hand from their tangled state to reach up and gently cup the brunet's cheek, digits once more grazing the skin with fascination.

"I do have some ideas...", he mumbled, finally able to look elsewhere, trailing down so emerald gaze could come to rest on the bow of decidedly soft lips. Briefly, the fingers in soft hair curled, giving in to the coiling in his insides, tugging at the hair in their grip, but releasing it in favor for resting between prominent shoulder blades, while his other hand wandered down, fingers taking the slightest, coaxing grip on Squall's chin, motioning him closer. The blond leaned up at that, no reasonable or clear thought able to form in his head anymore as he leaned in, his mouth ghosting against the others.

[officialtrashbin]

To Begin Again

The thing is, Corvus and Hela do have a history, and it isn’t pretty.

Backstory and some events leading up to GotG 2019 #1. Birthday gift for @senpoiypul <3

Rating: M, smut and dark themes Contains Corvus/Proxima and Corvus/Hela

* * * * * 

He was not the first person to reject Death, nor will he be the last. Hela thought that strange, and intriguing, and sad—Death was pathetic, always pining for the ones that desired her the least, but unlike all things in the universe, she gave meaning, and it came as no immediate surprise that the quality of her love came with the quantity of gifts bestowed by those most affectionate of her.

Corvus did not love Death, but he was no exception.

* * *

He did pine for her, though. As all immortals did, at one point or another, as Hela herself once had. In the beginning he wasted his unending days trying to find meaning, trying to find purpose, trying to find Death. Even apart, the glaive healed him slowly, refusing its master the forbearance of eternal rest. He tried to find mercy.

He found Hela instead.

* * *

Technically, she’d found him, a shell of a beast, heir to a throne of a collapsing kingdom, with his claws desperately clutching the weapon of a dead god. He splayed across the rubble of the charred throne room in a tattered cloak, gasping for breath, returning from unlife for the first of what would become many times, and terrified.

What manner of chaos has befallen this place?

He looked at her, eyes blown wide open with adrenaline and fear. The kind of a cornered animal, one subtle movement away from explosive violence. He did not answer her.

What is your name?

He swallowed the rock in his throat. “I—I am Sevan.”

Sevan.

“It means bringer.”

Hela crossed the floor of blackened bodies to reach him. She kneeled, and learned; her hands read the sharp edges of his face like braille, partaking in the intense warmth of his flesh, in the otherworldly scent that emanated from the ruined earth beneath the castle, and relished in the understanding that he was now something else, undying.

Do you fear death, Sevan?

He choked out a sob, and then, a cruel, triumphant laugh. “No, My Lady. Never before and never again.” His claws lanced her skin as he grabbed her arms, anchoring her in place. There was such a delicious desperation to how he held her. In an instant, he’d become someone who needed something to lose. “And who are you, if not her servant?”

I serve only myself.

“Will you show her to me? Show her to me over and over and over again, so that I may finally know her terror.”

Hela’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. Death does not fear the immortal, glaive-wielder.

“She does,” he said. “She does, and she is beautiful.”

* * *

Their companionship was accidental, though not coincidental. She lingered to relish in the violence he’d caused by obtaining the glaive, and taunted Death a little when she systematically appeared to usher their souls to judgment. Sevan remained in the shadow of a-now-dead god; he piqued Hela’s curiosity the way little else did, so she followed his wake.

He retreated to a secluded area of the mountains which overlooked the valley of his people’s kingdom, and she found him on the edge of a plateau, where he considered the distance to the bottom, and the mist made nothing below them distinct.

“I don’t care if you remain,” he said to her, “but will you at least tell me what you’re playing at?”

Why do you assume I want anything from the likes of you?

“You are unlike anyone I have met before. It must have been the scent of death that brought you here, across the great void—though I suppose it is unfair of me to assume you are associated with any of what transpired today.”

She grinned, baring her teeth at him. A mortal killed a god on this day. That is cause for celebration, or perhaps enthusiastic admiration. Dare I miss such an occasion?

“I see,” he uttered, “though, I am no longer mortal, and there will be no celebration. Yet you remain.”

Tis my curiosity which keeps me bound to this world. I wish to observe what you choose to do with your newfound immortality. What is the first lesson you will learn?

He faced her, so suddenly that she almost thought he might strike her with his glaive. Instead, he perched up on a lonely boulder, and asked her, “What was your first lesson?”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. Everything is without meaning. The immeasurable emptiness of which lives and empires and stories are built upon is rendered illegitimate by time, and it can all be filled, quite helplessly, and quite desperately, though it will always amount to nothing.

Sevan’s claws curled tight around the neck of his glaive. “I will have to see if this is true.”

You call me a liar?

“No. I call you beautiful, and sinister.” He smiled, or smirked; it was difficult to distinguish between the two with his mouth crammed full to bursting with sharp, horrifying fangs. “You gain nothing from lying, now that I am no longer bound to mortal restrictions.”

Then it is time for your first lesson.

She reached out to him, her palms cradling his rough, warm face. It was not intimacy she supplied. He took it as such though, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

You are meaningless.

* * *

Sevan was pleading for death again, the sole survivor of a battle between his family’s kingdom and the rebellion that sought to overtake it, when Hela finally returned to him. It had been months, perhaps years; she couldn’t tell. The mountains were no longer covered in a veil of frost, and the water that ran down from it formed the deep river which he kneeled by. This was not the first time she’d heard him. This was, however, the first time she’d entertained his wish, and appeared in a flourish of theatrical green mist.

“Mercy,” he cried to the water, as though it would carry his voice to Death Herself. “Mercy, I say! Have you no shame?”

It is you who requires a humbling touch, Sevan.

“But it is you who told me I am meaningless.” He rose from the grass, and he seemed taller, more menacing than when they’d last spoken. “If I cannot be something, and if I cannot be nothing, then what am I to do?”

She considered him. Personally, I do whatever I deem more entertaining in the moment. Fulfill your heart’s desire.

“I desire death.”

Do you truly?

It was his turn to consider her. “I want to leave this place,” he admitted, turning his gaze up to the sky, where the planet their moon orbited rose into view. “I have the means, but no direction.” Then, quite absurdly, he asked her, “What did you do first, when you realized you could become anything?”

I became the Queen of Hel.

“Did it give you meaning?”

She frowned, and found his terrifying visage became less intense the more she gazed upon him. He was handsome, in a way, composed of gnarled curves akin to that of a feline, a creature evolved to exist at the top of the food chain. He was quite fascinating, unfortunately for her.

Hela canted her hip, and snarled.

Yes…I suppose it did.

* * * 

They weren’t in love, not now, but maybe they had been. Hela figured that’s what this had to be. When he called, she answered, beckoned forth by his uncanny resolve to experience death or kill everything else trying. How could she possibly deny him her presence when such cunning should be rewarded?

At first, she called it curiosity. In due time, he began to come to her. Sometimes they found each other by mere coincidence in this vast and empty void and it all felt planned, somehow, in some way, by powers greater than their own. They became the opposite of amnesia. Bound to togetherness.

She learned that eternity is a long time to get to know someone.

* * * 

What are you doing, Sevan?

“That is no longer my name,” he said. “My people have crowned me Corvus. They believe I am the god I slayed, absurdly reincarnated, as if I did not kill Him with my own two hands.”

Answer my question.

Blood spooled into the dirt. A laceration cleaved his face in two, along the right side, and for whatever reason he’d deemed it logical to leave his glaive, which would heal him instantly, abandoned, where it was ceremoniously impaled through the chest of a T’Varah militant.

She didn’t know what forces compelled her so, but she took ahold of his glaive, and yanked it free. Corvus went to her as if summoned. He put his hand over hers. The proximity to his ethereal weapon became enough—the flesh on his face amended, seamlessly, between two heartbeats.

“I am finding meaning.”

Why bother? This all amounts to nothing in the end.

“So you keep saying.” His other hand went boldly to her waist, pulling her close. “The rebels send swarms to kill me. I meet them alone, and I return victorious. They tell stories of me. Is that not meaningful?”

Whatever eases the ache of immortality. Tis a long way down to where the earth grows cold.

Maybe it was the way she said it, or their close proximity, shortened by the long years of knowing each other, or a culmination of both these things—either way, he took her by her waist and pressed his mouth to hers. She reciprocated the kiss, gnashing tongues and teeth, the blood of a split lip filling both their senses. They didn’t know which of them was bleeding. It didn’t matter.

Corvus, she whispered between breaths. God of battle and ravens and death. Glaive-wielder, war-bringer, world-ender.

My love.

* * * 

In the bedchambers within a dark corner of the castle, a prince and a goddess made love until it hurt. The air was filled with violent tendencies: he bit her shoulder, leaving the impression of his teeth; she clawed up his back, drawing blood; their groans and gasps ascended through the room.

Harder. Corvus, give it to me.

“I don’t know if I—”

Had enough already?

“No,” he growled against her neck, and pinned her down on the bed, “I will never have enough of you.”

Those are dangerous words.

“You are a dangerous woman,” he said, “and I find myself drawn to your apathy. When did this all go so horribly wrong?”

I’m unsure. You are quite…different.

“Different?” he echoed, sucking a bruise into her waist. Of all the things he was, with his lithe proportions and sharp edges, she hadn’t expected him to be the sensual type. Hela didn’t know if she liked that about him—nor how completely loved he made her feel.

Only the old gods know how I cannot figure you out. Do you feel the same?

He kissed her chest in worship. Flicked one of her nipples with his tongue.

“Who’s to say I feel any particular way? As you’ve told me before, everything will eventually amount to nothing. Stars, souls, us… Do my feelings make a difference?”

Sometimes, things are more complex than they should be.

He kissed her cheek. Her lips. “We are cursed, and that is that.”

I do not remember cursing you. Not recently.

He snorted, and put his mouth fully on hers. The taste of her still lingered there; she groaned into him as he complimented her flesh with his again, filling her full. His tongue lapped at her sternum, then trailed up in one, unbroken path to the valley of her shoulder, where he found the flutter of her pulse, and bit. She groaned out a swear in her native tongue.

“Cursed,” he said, “to be sentient forever. Is that so meaningless?”

Move.

He grabbed her hips and slammed into her, fucking her rough and fast against threadbare sheets. Her homeworld’s language filled the air amongst the cacophony of moans and grunts and primal snarls. She got louder. More desperate. Her nails raked over his back, digging up curls of warm, gray skin.

“I love you, My Lady Death.”

She gazed up at him through slotted eyelids.

“Is that meaningless, too?”

She took his face in her hands.

No, she said, and she meant every word. No, it isn’t, but you will regret this.

“I doubt that.”

You shouldn’t. When it is all over—she rolled them both over and pinned him down by his neck, her nails cutting into his flesh, drawing blood—you will plead for Death’s mercy, and receive only Her eternal silence.

* * *

Complicated. It was always so complicated, to be close to someone. Hela knew Corvus’ life—war, ambition, meaning—wasn’t self-sustaining. He listened to her, somewhat, about her objections to his approach to immortality but his stubbornness frequently outlasted his other whims.

Hela liked that about him, though it meant nothing in the end.

* * *

The creature came with a name, Czazer, which meant peace. Hela gazed down at the beast with contempt, for he too was a prince, and painfully unaware of the irony of his name. From what she understood, the conjoining of Corvus and Czazer’s parents meant an uneasy alliance between the races; the kingdom had been unsettled by Sevan, king-heir, obtaining the weapon of the late god of death, so Czazer stood as a…remedy to that situation.

Czazer was so young he was barely hip-height, a lanky thing, half-grown bones and off-kilter from the rapid growth of his species; he grasped Corvus’ cloak as they made their way across the courtyard, through the ceremonious passage of servants and soldiers.

Hela appeared later to Corvus, in the shadow at the corner of his study, and said, Does he know what you are?

“He will.”

Do you believe he can love you then? Your people do not care for you, knowing you have killed their god. Some resent you. A tightly wound cord, ready to snap.

Corvus went to her and stroked her cheek. “Why do you speak this way?”

Do you love me, Corvus of the Glaive?

“Of course. Have I done something that warrants your concern otherwise?”

She slid her hand along his shoulder, under his chin, and tilted his gaze up to hers like a coin flip. It is time for your next lesson, Sevan—the love of Death comes with a price. Break the cord.

“The cord?”

Your brother. Take his life. Throw this pathetic world into the chaos it’s been brewing for generations. Appease Death. Appease me, and I will make you the ruler of a worthy kingdom that bestows upon you all the love you deserve.”

There was no hesitation. “I will not.”

I beg your pardon?

“You ask me to kill my own blood. No, absolutely not.”

Hela felt a blade lance through her chest, and for a moment thought Corvus had struck her, only to realize it was deep, horrible sadness. Don’t you love me, Corvus of the Glaive?

“I do.”

Then why do you refuse to prove it?

“You do not love me, for if you did you would never ask me to spill the blood of my own kin. If I must live for all eternity, I will not do so with that guilt bearing down upon my shoulders.”

Devotion, Sevan. Það er sterkara en blóð.

“That is not my name!” He cast his glaive down and it struck through the floor, ripping up the sheetrock and wood.

Hela’s own anger reflected his, though hers was less imposing; she whipped away from him, knowing her control over death would not aid her against an immortal. Then you have learned nothing! Someday, whether you appreciate the sentiment or not, you will be forced to make a choice. One of chance. Of devotion. It is the sacrifice of life which earns Death’s desire.

“Then I will find someone else to devote myself to!”

The silence in the room was deafening. Hela slowly closed their distance, half-anticipating him to cast her out, but he stood his ground. She framed his face with her hands.

Oh, Corvus.

She pressed her frigid lips to his, committing the sense of his closeness to her memory for all eternity, and then stepped backwards and away from him, into the deep shadows.

It will never be enough to begin again.

* * *

They called her Proxima Midnight. Corvus had her name spoken to him by the council’s messenger as the Mad Titan’s legion descended upon their kingdom, fore-fronted by a woman of black lightning who crashed through their front doors only minutes after the messenger’s arrival.

Corvus felt tilted in her presence.

He thought of Hela.

She declared herself Proxima Midnight of the Black Order, and told his parents, with a dramatic gesture of her spear, “Your world will bow to Thanos!”

Corvus stood from his seat to his father’s side. He gave them a sideways glance, a knowing nod, and then ventured across the hall to meet with her.

“Mercy, Proxima Midnight,” he said. “We do not wish to bend to this—Thanos, but we are not beyond negotiation. Clearly, you are a formidable army, and you must certainly bring with you a great force.”

She stood above him. “You speak for this planet?”

“I do. I am Corvus, heir to the throne.”

“Then come with me to my Master.”

He did. Later that night, after agreeing to join with Thanos and spare his people, he was alone, working his stress out in the dark of his chambers—he’d try to conjure up the image of Hela grinding herself down on his hips, but in her place was Proxima Midnight, and he didn’t think he was opposed to such an idea.

* * *

Hela learned of Corvus’ whereabouts many years later. Though there was an ache she felt when she considered the empty place in her bed, she found something else: he’d taken to a master, a Titan named Thanos, who served Death.

She went to the kingdom to find that it’d been totally eradicated. Those few that remained lived now in tents and shacks upon the grounds of an old, mighty kingdom, and one whispered to her of the story, of Corvus Glaive and his brother Black Dwarf, who’d tricked their people into going to war, and slaughtered everyone.

Hela’s fingers curled into her palms, sharp nails biting her skin.

He listened to me after all. What kind of deity did he devote himself to, one which could convince him to cause such annihilation?

Hela thought she heard Corvus’ voice in the back of her mind, speaking of purpose, and decided she would pay this Mad Titan a visit.

* * *

Another lifetime later, Corvus thought of Hela for the first time. The memory of her started to the front of his mind when the light of a blue supergiant refracted through their bedroom window and through Proxima’s hair, giving the silver an almost greenish hue. He trembled by reason of traumatic corollary. He’d been naïve, back then, to allow Hela a place in his life, simply because she felt, at the time, like the only other person who understood him.

Proxima noticed his sudden hesitation, and closed the distance between them to put her hand on his cheek. “My love, what is it?”

“Ah, forgive me. I remembered, quite suddenly, a woman I used to know.”

“An old lover?”

He rolled his shoulders. “A goddess to those on her world,” he said. “She appeared to me the day I obtained my…affliction, and at the time, it seemed she was merely seeking the warmth of another who understood her endlessness.” He thought of their final moment, in his study. “We were not compatible.”

“Did you worship her?”

There was something about how she said it. Corvus tilted his head quizzically, and Proxima stepped backwards towards the bed. She undid her helmet, her armor, letting the pieces tumble to the floor. Corvus grasped the neck of his glaive mercilessly.

“Midnight—”

“Will you worship me?” she asked him.

She unzipped her suit. Dragged the thick material away from her skin and pushed it down until it spilled off her body and pooled at her feet.

He set his glaive against the wall, then unclasped his cloak and rolled it free from his shoulders.

“It would be an honor,” he said. “May I worship you until the end of our days?”

“Yes,” she uttered breathlessly, and kissed him. “Yes.”

* * *

The past had a way of bringing things back.

Hela knew it would be a matter of time before they collided again, and oh, how they did, right there on the rock flats of her outpost, where she summoned the Black Order to assist with her mission. She’d theatrically pulled herself out of the shadow to greet them, and in the same moment was forced to conjure a blade to deflect Corvus’ glaive.

“You dare approach the Black Order?” he snarled, and lashed out at her again.

She considered crucifying him, parried his strike, and sent him sliding back with a burst of energy from her opposing fist. He recovered quickly. The other members of the Order readied themselves to join the fight, but it was, much to Hela’s surprise, Proxima Midnight who gave the command to stand down.

“We will hear your offer,” she said.

Corvus looked at her, blew out a winded breath, and went to be at her side.

Hela gritted her teeth. You should be overjoyed to see me. I plan to resurrect your beloved Master—

“Thanos,” Corvus said, “is no longer our Master. We will not serve him, and we will not serve you.”

You owe me—

He slammed the rear blade of his glaive into the ground. “I owe you nothing, wretched witch!”

Sevan. Af hverju hegðarðu þér eins og við séum óvinir? Þú sagðir að þú elskaðir mig.

He seemed taken aback, for a moment; he hadn’t heard that name in such a long time. It tasted like death in the air. A forgotten lifetime. “That was then,” he hissed, “and I was wrong. You killed two members of the Black Order. For that, I have no other desire to do anything but cut your head from your shoulders.”

Do you think so little of me?

“On the contrary, My Lady Death. I think far too much of you.”

“We should leave, my love,” Proxima said to him.

Hela tried again.

Corvus. Ég mun láta þig í friði að eilífu.

His eyes darted up, and met her frigid stare.

“Swear it.”

You have my word. I am bound to it.

After another moment, Corvus sighed. “Fine, but when this is done, you will uphold your end of the deal.”

Of course.

She closed the distance between them, and put her hand on his face. He’d thought she remembered him, by the way she touched him so tenderly. It was not a comforting embrace. He learned long ago that she was the opposite of familiarity.

And now, we begin again.

[sometimeinjoon]

Misleading Misdemeanor

4.1k

01 - 02 - 03 - 04

A/n: I have an obvious lack of knowledge of actual criminal procedure, ignore all the mistakes, I hope they’re acceptable. Also, it MAY get gruesome. Tread with caution.

Kim Namjoon. 24. Murderer.

Also one and the same as you, under certain conditions.

The sight of a black folder poised on your desk barely daunted you. It’s been a while, you thought, sitting down on your chair. In contrast to the multiple glaringly bright red folders in multiple towers around you, this black one seemed to hide its menacing contents quite well. To anyone else, this sole folder would be the most innocent of the swathe you basically lived in due to their sheer number.

At this point, you were never given anything but red. As soon as a case a little too complex shows up, it’s always the same phrase — “give it to the blitzkrieg" — as your superintendent lovingly refers to you. The color repulsed you so much you wanted to smash your new assistant Jennie’s head through the wall whenever she smiled at you with her less-than-pearly whites and fire engine red lipstick; she was sweet but stupid, and that plus her nauseating love for the stupid color made you want to chop her head off most of the time, but lucky for her, you were composed. You had to be, especially with your line of work.

Opening the folder, you were greeted with the typical documents: what they did, who they harmed, how many they harmed, sentence, possibility for parole, multiple photos of their crime scenes. Your eyes quickly get glued to the mug shot, which unnervingly resembled a yearbook picture more than it did an archival photo of a deemed psychopath, judging by the color of his folder that was almost never used. The motherfucker was smiling, and on top of that, the motherfucker was attractive. Nothing new in your experience though, that’s how pretty faces get away with so many crimes. You were merely noting facts.

Yelling in the corridor averted your eyes from the man in the photo to your window, seeing a man being dragged away by several police men. A dull 4 sat atop his head and you nod; the noisy ones were never really dangerous, although if it took 4 men to haul him to his cell, he sure was strong, you’ll give him that much. Behind the boisterous man was Yugyeom, your long-term colleague, sporting a proud 8. Darting your eyes around the people that were present outside your office, you gave a contented sigh. The gray numbers become overwhelming when you see too many all at once, and now that you controlled when you saw the numbers, you were invincible.

Fixing your view back to the opened folder, you begin to read on the man:

Kim Namjoon. IQ an impressive 148. 32 counts of murder, 2 counts of manslaughter. Nothing else.

You figured a man of his physique and appearance would be a rapist, and that’s beyond your bias, but he wasn’t. Perched at the very top of his victim list were his former investigators, sitting in first, second, and third, indicating succession, first being his latest victim. His case went from a white, to a red, to a navy blue, to a black in the span of a week, and no one has done that in your many years of experience. You’ve been warned quite sternly by your superintendent: “He killed the last 3, so don’t ever let your guard down. No one else can do this but you at this point, and if we lose you, the entire team’s going down.” Strangely enough, seeing this man’s case accelerate to the most dangerous color category that quickly made you excited to interview him. What number did he have? You’ve never seen anyone above a 9.

“Fifteen minutes, krieg,” Yugyeom knocks on your open door, adjusting his cuffs, as if the man they were dragging out gave him a bit more of a fuss than usual. You hated the nickname that was forced onto you, but nonetheless, you nod at him, taking one last sip from your cup before standing up, black folder in hand.

The walk to the interview room was relatively short, but filled with gasps from newer employees you passed by, and reassuring smiles from the ones you’ve been working with for a while. Throughout your career, you’ve only ever handled 3 black cases. To exemplify that feat, no one else has handled a black case. They were reserved for you. Everything above red was reserved for you. It took a lot to move up from a white case, and when a case does move up, it’s already a scare.

“Good morning, miss,” the policeman that was going to stand guard outside the room greeted you, holding the door open. Shortly after, 2 more policemen joined him. You were about to ask why there were so many of them, forgetting briefly about the supposedly extremely dangerous man you were about to encounter. You should be a little more fucking nervous, you fucking diva, you thought to yourself. Honestly though, how dangerous can this man be? Compared to you, at least.

Namjoon is ushered into the room and you don’t look up from the files you were trying to organize. You hear the door to his side of the room click, and he inhales quite sharply as he sat down.

“Wow,” he pauses for a bit too long, “you’re smart.” You can hear his smile through his voice. You don’t reply to his compliment as you continue to jot down questions you were going to ask him. “I know you know I am too, cause I know you can read my profile,” he follows up just as you pressed the button on the intercom to speak, not once looking away from your notes, and it makes you laugh right into the microphone.

“Oh shit, a girl this time?” By the way he speaks, you sensed genuine surprise in his tone.

“Sexist?” you ask, finally looking up, and you get the wind knocked right out of your chest.

A red number. It says 12.

“No, just astonished they’d even send a female in my direction, knowing what I did to the others,” he answers you, his gaze fixed right on the mirror in front of him. You feel like he’s looking right at you, except he seemed to mirror the subtle terror he couldn’t see on your face.

You struggle to speak as you not only lost your entire train of thought, but also you were scared shitless, as much as you’d hate to admit it. You didn’t know numbers could be red. You also didn’t know that the scale didn’t stop at 10.

He deadpans at the one-way glass in front of him, acknowledging the change in strategy. “I mean, I don’t think you intend to make my post-arrest kill count four, do you? It’s harder to kill someone when you don’t know who to kill, exactly.”

“Correct, even though the interrogation style’s motives must be obvious.” you try to nonchalantly answer. 

“Also wouldn’t be exactly delightful to fall for my interrogator,” he places his cheek in his hand, half-smiling. What a motherfucker. “You have a beautiful voice, ma’am, I could melt listening to you talk about what an asshole I am.” He smiles wider. 

“Great, then let’s do just that. Name?” 

“You know my name. My file’s right in front of you.”

"I’m trying to follow protocol, but since you’re so eager, let’s get to it then,” you say, and he nods.

"Let’s cut everything out,” he says, leaning onto his elbows on the table. “I know you know exactly what I am, and the flowery talk I use on everyone won’t work on someone like you.” His expression is hidden by the shadow cast by his face from the drop light on the ceiling, and oh god how you wish you could see what he looked like as he said that.

“You talk like you know me,” you say, clicking your pen down and you see him raise an eyebrow and blow air out of his nose in a form of a hesitant chuckle. You tried to ignore your obnoxiously sweaty palms. He can’t see you, you reminded yourself. 

“Kim Namjoon, 24, murderer.” The way his voice comes out so rich and deep contradicts the evil he spoke, and it scared you more how he seemed so calm and composed. You were used to murderers and rapists be this way, all collected, all chill, but the menacing 12 marking the air above him made it difficult for you to just treat him like an ordinary man.

“Any specific motives on your killings? Specific targets?”

"Anyone. Everyone. I don’t really care.” You stop writing.

“Any types you spare?”

He smiles at your question. “The ones like you.”

He’s an actual fucking psychopath, you tell yourself, and re-read his files to see if he really wasn’t a rapist, or at least a sex offender. He seems to be quite purposefully alluring.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I mean by that?” Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. You wondered why all traces of fear seem to have left your body, the red 12 you’ve willed away to not have it distract you, although it’s real, and it’s a warning. What made this too-confident of a man be a 12? Why is his number red?

“Yes, tell me more about why you wouldn’t want to kill me,” you wave your pen around in the air as you spoke into the mic, trying to humor him. Surely he was just being sly.

“Two quite simple things,” he waves his hair away from his face. “Smart,” he raises his pinky finger in a count, “and dangerous. I know you’ve been told you’re one of a kind, and you are, baby girl, you are, but you’re — ” he trails off, and looks directly at the mirror and you meet his eyes. 

“A red 12. Just like me.” 

“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” The policeman asks you before moving out of the doorway to let you in. He wasn’t the only one nervous about this, no, the entire fucking building was. Half of them were sure they were about to lose their best employee ever, and half of them are convinced you’ll break this man and skin him alive.

You intended to make neither of the two sides right.

The interview yesterday did not go as planned, and ignoring the worried looks to your direction as soon as you left the interrogation room, you decided to end the interview early, for your own sake. Your mind was racing, heart thumping like a horse that’s just ran in a race. Today though, you planned to get the answers you needed from him.

Setting your gun underneath the table, you waited patiently for Namjoon to be let in. You were nervous, more nervous than the interview yesterday, and understandably so. You were now going to be a mere few feet away from the hotshot killer, and he wasn’t going to be cuffed or restrained in any way. 

As soon as Namjoon sets eyes on you, he looks like he’s about to break out into a panic. He was expecting the mirror, the intercom, but instead, he sees the red 12 above your head, and then your actual head. He could see the blazing numbers through the mirror yesterday, despite not being able to see you in actuality. He couldn’t actually believe what he saw. He’d spent all night trying to convince himself it was an illusion. Master killers were a gray 9, so what were you? More importantly, what was he?

No words were spoken for a good 30 seconds after the door was shut behind Namjoon, the two of you just blankly staring at each other, studying each other’s features. Your hands were clasped underneath your chin, and in a fleeting moment of vulnerability, Namjoon actually tucked his massive frame into a smaller size, as if afraid of you all of a sudden, maybe shy? The audience that has gathered at the monitoring room held their breath as they waited for something to ensue.

You inhale deeply and the click of your pen startles Namjoon. “What did you do before you were arrested?” 

“Don’t you have it there?” he asks, pointing at the black folder opened at the side of the desk. He actually looks sincerely gently disgruntled by you, as if seeing you physically has ruined something in his already-ruined mind.

“I have a list of your previous crimes, yes, murder, murder, murder, and another murder, what a surprise,” you say, flipping through his papers, setting down the lie you were telling lightly. “Oh and what don’t I have, your last case. Tell me what you did.” You place your hand over the stack of papers so he won’t see the police report that you feigned not having.

“Killed a man, but this time it was an accident,” he shrugs, and looks as if he regrets having committed the crime, but you know he relishes in misleading people with his demeanor, and you know you can’t let him mislead you. 

“Go on?” You ask, meeting his too low of a gaze, and you were extremely surprised when he actually took your coaxing and just lets it all out. 

“He hit me with in the back of the head, and I, retaliated? I pushed him back too hard. He fell and hit his head on the pavement, and now he’s dead.” He finishes with an exhale. “Manslaughter. Starts with an M, but isn’t murder.”

 It’s not uncommon for criminals to make up stories and actually make them believable, but to your surprise, his account matches the one in his folder exactly. He actually just told you what happened, and he looked like he felt bad for it.

“I can’t read you,” he says, taking the words right out of your mouth.

“Why are you trying to read me?” 

“It’s important that I know you.” He answers, looking at you with softened eyes and you were at the edge of making sure you don’t believe him.

“So you can kill me?” You ask, pressing forward onto the desk.

“No.”

“Hurt me?”

“Does it look like I would try to?”

No, no it doesn’t. He seems like an angel just about now, and the annoying voice in your head that never has anything helpful to say insists that he must be sincere. 

“Tell me, why do you need to know me?”

“So that I can know what I am too.”

You don’t press any further and instead settle back into your seat. This interview was going nowhere with questioning like this, and you both knew that. You also knew there was an audience behind the mirror, and so you flip through your notes from yesterday and go on with the bullets you weren’t able to ask.

“Why did you commit all those murders?”

“It’s different for each one.”

“Okay, Jackson Wang. It says here you were best friends. Why did you turn on him?”

Namjoon’s eyes close shut and he doesn’t open them until after a whole 30 seconds passed by. “His number turned green.”

You inhale sharply when he says that and he’s just as surprised as you were with your reaction. He continues on his train of thought: “he was an 8. Gray, at first, then it started to ombre into this mud color, until eventually, after not seeing him for a while, I look up and see it’s gone completely stoplight green.”

“What does it mean when the numbers turn green? How bad is it that made you do this to your best friend?” You press forward, sliding the 4R photo of the crime scene you were talking about. Jackson Wang, steel pipe in his chest where his heart should be. It went right through him, the other end of the pipe impaled into the brick wall behind him.

Namjoon avoids the photo and looks to his side. “You don’t know anything, do you?”

“That’s why I’m asking you all these things. Let’s pretend I’m stupid. Explain this shit to me.”

He scoffs. “I can’t pretend you’re stupid. Yours are red. And it goes over 10.”

At this point, the people in the monitoring room are completely lost on the situation, questioning not only Namjoon’s mental stability, but yours as well. The ones that have faith in you are convinced that you’re doing this as a tactic and are riding along to his bullshit to juice information out of him, but only Yugyeom and your superintendent are aptly following along to the conversation. They knew what you were talking about, but just like you, they were lost on Namjoon talking about green numbers. All of you only thought that the numbers were gray. You were the only one that can see the numbers, aside from the man across you on the table, but the numbers are definitely not just gray. They can also be fire truck red. And now, to your surprise, they can be green too.

“Then don’t pretend I’m stupid. Pretend I’m your equal and I can perfectly understand your motives to your kilings.” You say leaning even further forward on the table. Namjoon starts moving his index finger against the desk in an incessant manner, drawing a short line. He exhales overstatedly and he leans forward too, his left elbow thudding onto the desk, eyes locking with yours once he settles his cheek onto his opened palm. His finger is still going at it despite the change in position, although now outlining a cross, forward, backward, sideways, stop. He assumes you’ve taken notice of his movement before he tilts his head down to look at you through hooded eyes. 

“Try it.” His finger stops.

There’s electricity in your feet and he’s uncomfortably close, but you don’t back away. You’re stuck in a staring contest with a psychopath, his moods changing at exceptional speed. One moment, he’s shy, scared, startled by your presence, and another moment he looks like he’s about to lie you down on the table and fuck you silly, like right now. He’s smirking, dimple exaggerated by the light above his head.

“Are you sure you haven’t raped anyone yet?” You cock an eyebrow.

“Ma’am,” he fully smiles at this point. “Call me anything you want. Murderer, psycho, any synonym thereof,” he settles back into his seat, his finger starting to draw again, this time slower, “but I am never two things: a liar, and a rapist. I’m a gentleman, and I’m sure of it. I’d hold the door open for you if I could once this interrogation is over.”

You toss another photo in his direction, and he takes it. He relaxes further in his seat, one arm slung behind his back rest, the other holding the picture up. He alternates looking at the photo, and then at you. He talks before you ask him anything.

“Six. Easy kill. Gray. He had a wedding ring, but he was abusive.” His finger stops moving. “I had a hard time with this one, just cause he’s so big. With my size it’s not really difficult to take someone down, but this one was muscular. Really muscular.”

“You seem almost happy about this one?”

“I am,” he sets the picture down, sliding it back to you. “He was an asshole.”

You tilt your head to the side, eyes slightly narrowed. Without looking away from him you slide another picture across the desk. You keep your hand on the glossy print while you waited for him to talk.

His face smoothens, smile disappearing. He looks like he’s choked on air when he sees the picture, lips quivering.

“Kim Taeyhung. Your brother.” You barely whisper. “Why?”

“What if I tell you there wasn’t a motive?”

“You told me you weren’t a liar, under any circumstance.”

“You’re good at your job, miss. Really good.”

“That’s the reason I’m in front of you.”

He doesn’t answer for a while, eyes fixed on the gruesome image of the man shot repeatedly, blood ironically painting the canvas that was behind him where he’d fallen over. You reach back and give him more images, more angles of the murder. After you spread out the fourth one, he slams his hand down on your wrist to stop you and stands up. The policemen barge into the room to restrain Namjoon and he doesn’t fight either of them. He throws both his hands up behind his head and smiles. With his face being closer to the light on the ceiling, his eyes become more prominent in its shadow: wide and bright and prodding. There’s something feline and predatory about his gaze, like he’s thinking of dissection. Destruction.

“No, it’s okay,” you tell the two policemen that were preparing to take him away. “Let him go. I’m not done with him yet.” They look at you extremely confused, but they obey. The monitoring room is now bursting full and hot and uncomfortable. Yugyeom weasels his way to the intercom and shushes the room before he speaks.

“Try that one more time and we’re sedating you.”

“Sir, I just held her wrist.” Namjoon looks at the mirror from side to side and sits down. “Hello to everyone watching!” he waves, smiling wide. When his lips terminate the lift at the ends of either corner, he stares at you, his look greedy, intent on taking as much of your features in as he can. He looks back at the mirror behind you, and then to you once again almost immediately. He rests his cheek on his palm again, looking like he’s admiring you from across a library table in university.

“Tell me, miss,” he smirks, “why is your highest digit here at your office an 8? And why just one?” You swallow hard at the nonchalant statement. He definitely can see the numbers, and he’s talking about Yugyeom. “Underground, we go up to 9s. Multiple 9s.”

You wave off his statement while you rearrange his file, sliding a quick compliment to his allies before his face turns serious again at your voice.

“They’re not allies. I don’t have allies. Allies are bullshit.” You nod at his even tone.

“Figures, you did kill your bro—“

Namjoon slams his hand down on the table, startling everyone in the proximity. “I didn’t fucking want to kill Taehyung, you bitch,” he literally spits out the curse he’d so aggressively thrown at you. “I would never fucking kill any of my brothers.” He was talking quick, veins on his outstretched arm prominent and angry. Almost as angry as he was. You hold out your palm to the policeman barely opening the door, peering at you through the slit on the steel. He nods, but his eyes were full of worry.

“You killed two of them,” you say unfazed, head tilted to the side. You were looking at him cripplingly, challenging him, trying to press at his emotions harder so he would burst. “Taehyung. Jimin,” you listed off. Namjoon’s chest heaves with every breath, ears red. His hand is now balled up into a fist, the other clawing at his thigh. You lean closer to him and repeat the names of the three youngest in his family. “Taehyung. Jimin.” You say with emphasis. You fish out their photos from the stack you had and flick them towards him.

He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the images. A tear slips down one of his cheeks, his face flushed, neck veins near popping, fists shaking from how hard he’s closed them in.

“Stop,” He whispers.

“Why did you kill them?”

“I was young. Stupid. Reckless. I still am,” he surrenders, tears now continuous. “But I regret harming them. Killing them. They were godsends in this hellhole.”

“You shot Taehyung 23 times,” you read off of a page in his folder. “That seems intentional, if anything.”

“Why are you suddenly an idiot?” He blinks at you. His eyes were bloodshot, brow worried and hurt was evident in his voice. “Panic. It was in panic.”

“You need to cock a gun to fire that many times in succession, Namjoon,” you cross, and his eyes grow wide at you calling him by name.

He leans forward, hushing his voice. “One,” he sticks his index finger out, “I threw the fucking bullets, alright? And two,” he follows up with his middle finger, “do not call me Namjoon. That’s not a name for you to use. You have no idea what that does to me when you say it.”

You’re baffled with what he said, and you’re not sure how to take that in. You narrow your eyes at him, feigning arrogance. 

“Namjoon.”

[tomeandflickcorner]

Movie Review- Ghostbusters

The 1984 film Ghostbusters was the brainchild of Dan Akroyd, who had been a long-time believer in the paranormal.  When he first started writing the script, his intention was to have the movie center around three people traveling through time and space to hunt down ghosts.  He also planned to have the movie star himself and John Belushi, his close friend and fellow SNL alumni.  Unfortunately, Belushi’s untimely death in 1982 made that impossible.  However, in spite of the tragedy, Akroyd decided to press on with his project, and he presented his proposed script to Ivan Reitman, who convinced Akroyd to revise the premise to take place solely in modern-day New York City and then brought in Harold Ramis to help Akroyd rework the script.  Eventually, they were able to pitch the revised project to Colombia Pictures. The studio saw the potential of the proposed project and, even with the absence of a final script, they greenlit the film with the understanding that it would be ready for release in the summer of 1984.

So, I’m sure we all know how the movie opens, with the middle-aged librarian at the New York Public Library simply doing her job in reshelving some books before she gets terrorized by the sight of the old card catalogue’s contents flying out of their individual shelves and nearly running headlong into something that makes her scream in terror, right before the instant dissolve into the iconic Ghostbusters logo, accompanied by Ray Parker Jr.’s classic theme song.  But even in that opening sequence, I was quite impressed how well the effects hold up, considering this move was made in the 80s. It still looks good when the books float across the shelves on their own. Although, it occurred to me while writing this that there might be some mild confusion among younger audiences watching this movie now, considering many of them have probably never had to use an actual card catalogue in their lives.  Boy, I feel old.

We then shift focus to the movie’s protagonists, Peter Venkman, Ray Stantz, and Egon Spengler, a trio of scientists who study the paranormal at Columbia University.  At the moment, Peter is seemingly in the middle of conducting an experiment in ESP by having two people guess what’s on those ESP cards.  Basically, the gist of this experiment is to deliver a mild electric shock on the subjects every time they guess wrong.  I guess this is done in an attempt to trigger the test subjects’ clairvoyance or something. But it becomes obvious rather quickly that he’s fudging his data, as he’s only delivering the electrical shocks to the male test subject while refusing to extend the same treatment to the female test subject.  Peter’s obviously a bit of a womanizer in that regard.  When the male test subject finally has enough of the constant electrical shocks and storms out, Peter proceeds to try and charm the young woman out on a date.  However, he’s quickly interrupted by Ray, who bursts into the room in a fit of excitement. He announces that they’ve been called out to the New York Public Library in order to investigate the strange happenings that were shown in the movie’s opening.  Peter, despite trying to make an excuse to sit this one out, is pretty much dragged to the library.

It was at this point in the movie that I started to raise an eyebrow at the very presence of Peter in this movie.  Don’t get me wrong, because the whole franchise certainly wouldn’t have been as popular without this character, or the characteristically phenomenal presence of Bill Murray.  But I do question why Peter, as a character, is even here.  Yes, a deleted scene indicated that he was the one who introduced Ray and Egon to each other, meaning they might not have ever met if not for Peter.  However, Egon and Ray seem legitimately interested actually studying and researching the paranormal.  Peter, on the other hand, comes across as someone who really doesn’t want to be there. He can’t even conduct a legitimate unbiased experiment, choosing to instead use said experiment as a front for getting dates.  It’s almost like someone who hates the performing arts going to Juilliard. Like, why are you even here?

Anyway, Peter and Ray soon join up with Egon at the library to investigate the disturbance, starting with the interview with the terrified librarian.  At first, the interview seems rather straightforward, with Peter asking if she has a family history of mental illness, or if she’s currently taking any medication or drugs that might cause her to hallucinate.  This, I find, is rather smart.  From what I’ve seen, the best type of ghost hunters approach each case with an air of skepticism and try to find a more rational explanation for the supposed paranormal activity.  It’s the only way to determine if you have a legitimate haunting.  However, Peter then asks the librarian if she’s menstruating. To which the library administrator wonders why that should matter.  In response, Peter simply states ‘back off, man. I’m a scientist.’  Um, no. I’m sorry, but that was a legit question.  I’m asking as a female.  Why would the librarian’s menstrual cycle be of any significance?  Last I checked, menstruation does not trigger hallucinations. So, what’s the joke here? I don’t get it. Unless Peter is suggesting that the librarian’s emotional state might have influenced her to think she saw something due to PMS? Because that’s quite a leap in logic.  Not to mention rather sexist.  Just saying, if there was supposed to be a joke here, the fact that I have to think about it so hard makes it fail as a good joke.

Iffy attempts at jokes aside, Egon interrupts the interview to inform them that he’s got a read on the specter with his PKE meter and that it appears to be moving.  So the trio proceed down to the lower level of the library, where they find a bunch of books stacked up between the shelves, as well as the card reader completely drenched with ectoplasmic residue.  And once again, while Ray is approaching the while situation like an excited kid and Egon is gathering samples for further study, like a proper scientist would, Peter is just hanging around in the back, visibly bored and all but rolling his eyes. (Side note, really awkward line in this scene.  Ray says ‘listen, you smell that?’  Normally, when someone says to listen, they want you to hear something.  So if Ray was inquiring about a particular scent, shouldn’t his statement have started with ‘hang on’ or something?)

Eventually, the three of them come face-to-face with the Library Ghost.  However, they’re all a bit stumped on how to proceed.  Because this is apparently the first time they’ve actually seen a full torso apparition in person.  Not even Peter’s attempt at establishing communication with the Library Ghost seems to work.  Because, hey, it’s a ghost of a librarian.  They insist on people being quiet in the library.  But then Ray gets an idea.  Only his idea is to charge at the Library Ghost, shouting ‘get her!’  Needless to say, this plan doesn’t work, resulting only in the Library Ghost to instantly shift her appearance into a menacing looking creature that sends Peter, Egon and Ray running completely out of the library in terror.  (So much for the famous Ghostbuster motto of ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghost.’)

Interesting tidbit about the transformed Library Ghost, though.  The original design of the puppet they used in the scene was deemed too scary for the movie’s PG rating, so they had to set it aside and start from scratch.  But they later repurposed the initial design of the ghost for the original Fright Night, which came out the following year.

Sometime later, the trio return to Columbia University, with Peter teasing Ray about his impulsive plan. However, it comes out that the data Egon managed to gather on the Library Ghost during the brief encounter has led him to an interesting prospect. Through some technobabble about ionization rates, they theorize that might be possible for them to actually catch and permanently confine a ghost.  However, when they get back to their lab in order to report their findings, they are confronted with the college dean, Dean Yeager.  It turns out that the college’s board of directors has decided to terminate their grants, which means they’re being kicked off campus.  Thing is, I can totally understand why they’re giving Peter the boot.  Because as I said before, I have no idea why he even bothered getting the same parapsychology degree that Ray and Egon got.  Unlike them, he seems purely uninterested in actually researching the paranormal.  And the brief glimpse of his fake experiment on ESP demonstrates that he will willingly fabricate his data.  Everything we’ve seen from Peter so far seems to support everything Dean Yeager is accusing him of.  So yeah. I totally support them terminating Peter’s employment at the university.  But…why are they kicking Egon and Ray out?  They seem like the legit scientists here.  I haven’t seen any indication that they’re abusing their positions as paranormal researchers the way Peter is, and they appear to believe 100% in what they’re doing.  Is it just a case of them being guilty by association?  It would be one thing if they showed Ray and Egon trying to stick up for Peter, being all ‘if you fire him, you’ll have to fire us, too!’  And then immediately cut to them sitting outside on the curb, with boxes full of their stuff.  But they don’t do that.

Regardless of how it doesn’t make much sense, all three of them are now out of a job.  And Ray is taking it particularly hard.  Because without the money and facilities the university provided them with, it’s going to be quite difficult for them to continue their research.  Or something to that effect. However, Peter seems quite cavalier about the whole thing. Seemingly on the fly, he comes up with the idea of him, Ray and Egon opening up their own business as paranormal exterminators by running with Egon’s theory about catching ghosts.  The only thing is, for them to fully realize the ghost containment system that they have in mind, they’ll need to have a substantial amount of money.  Because the necessary materials and power system they need to keep it running don’t come cheap.  Of course, Peter’s got it all figured out, and he manages to coerce Ray into mortgaging the house his presumably dead parents left him in order to obtain their start-up loan.  Something that Ray isn’t pleased with, but Peter is confident that the franchise rights of being paranormal investigators and eliminators will make them super rich, so there’s no need for Ray to worry about losing his childhood home.  

Next up, they have to find a center of operations, so to speak, so they turn to a realtor to help them locate a vacant building they can utilize.  The realtor ends up bringing them to the iconic Firehouse, which has apparently been sitting empty for a while and is in a state of disrepair.  So much so, the ever-serious Egon finds nothing but faults in the old structure.  However, Ray, ever the optimist, falls in love with the place, particularly when it comes to the fire pole.  So, despite Egon’s objections, they end up purchasing the Firehouse.

We then cut to a rather fancy looking apartment complex, where a woman named Dana Barrett lives. We join up with her as she’s returning to her apartment with a bag of groceries.  Before she can reach her apartment, she is briefly held up by her dorky neighbor, Louis, who works as an accountant.  And he, I guess, has a bit of a one-sided crush on Dana, as he keeps inviting her over to his place for some refreshments.  While Dana is clearly not interested in him like that, she continues to graciously turn him down, though she does noncommittedly state she’ll ‘try’ to stop by at a party he’s planning on throwing for his clients in the near future.  Right before Dana retreats to her apartment in order to get ready for work (she’s a professional musician who plays cello in a symphony orchestra), Louis informs her that she accidently left her TV on when she went out, which greatly puzzles Dana as she doesn’t remember leaving it on.  This does end up being beneficial, however, because when Dana enters her apartment, the TV just happens to be playing an advertisement for Peter, Egon and Ray’s new business, Ghostbusters.  Dana, briefly watches the commercial in bemusement, but then turns the TV off, continuing to the kitchen in order to put away her groceries.  

And that’s when the disturbance happens.  While Dana is putting things away, the eggs she set out suddenly start flying out of their shells and proceed to cook on the counter.  While it takes Dana a few seconds to notice this, she is visibly stunned by the phenomenon.  Before she can recover from the strangeness of this, she hears a menacing growl emanating from her refrigerator.   Deciding to investigate the growls, Dana opens the refrigerator to see the interior has been replaced by some dimensional portal to a demonic looking realm. Before Dana can slam the door with a scream, she witnesses the image of a bear-sized creature roaring out the word ‘Zuul!’

Quick question before I continue. I know that the movie pretty much implied that Dana really had simply forgot to switch off her TV before heading out to the store and all, but was that really what happened?  What if the TV being switched on while Dana was out was another paranormal happenstance?  I know it was probably the more rational explanation, but Kid Me always kinda wondered about that.

Cut to two days later. The Ghostbusters are still trying to get their new business off the ground.  They’ve got a rather basic sign for the front of the building, which Peter isn’t too impressed with, and Ray has purchased an old hearse to function as the company car, even though the car is in need of some serious maintenance. They’ve even found a secretary in the feisty and intellectual Janine.  She seems to have a thing for Egon, though he seems to be a bit bewildered by her at first. Just look at the way he’s looking at her when she’s rabbling on about how much she likes to read.  Maybe he was expecting her to give up on making small talk with him when he retorted that ‘print is dead.’  Maybe this is the first time he met a woman who wasn’t immediately scared away by his overly serious demeanor, and he wasn’t sure how to handle that.  In case you couldn’t tell already, I ship these two so hard.

That’s when Dana enters the Firehouse.  It seems she has remembered the commercial she saw and has come to the Ghostbusters office to seek their help in figuring out what happened at her apartment two days ago.  (Side note, I do get a chuckle over how Peter popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box when he overheard Dana talking to Janine.)  Since the Ghostbusters haven’t had any other prospective clients yet, they are quick to offer her assistance.  After hearing about what she experienced, Egon and Ray immediately start formulating their hypotheses on what might have caused Dana to witness the things she did and decide to get right to work on researching the history of Dana’s apartment building and searching for any information on the name Zuul.  However, Peter volunteers to go to Dana’s apartment and take a look around.  Though it’s made very clear that he’s only doing so because he finds her attractive.

Of course, when they get to Dana’s apartment, Peter is unable to find any evidence of paranormal activity.  Even though the remnants of the eggs are still on the counter, everything else is completely normal, with the refrigerator being just an ordinary refrigerator.  Not even the ghost sniffer that Peter brought along seems to be detecting anything unusual. This frustrates Dana, who begins to partially question her sanity. However, Peter decides to be Peter and proceeds to lay on the charm, even going so far as to confess his love, even though he only met her that day. Last I checked, this isn’t a Disney movie.  I don’t think the Disney Corporation even owns Columbia Pictures (yet).  Dana, of course, is not having it and instructs him to leave.  Peter complies to her request, but not before vowing to prove himself by solving her case.  Dana simply rolls her eyes at his declaration and practically has to push him out the door.

That night, our protagonists are sitting down to a dinner of Chinese takeout, where they toast Dana as their first and only customer.  Peter, not giving up on his intent to woo the lady, voices his intent to take her out to dinner in order to keep her invested in their services.  However, Ray informs him that the food in front of them has effectively used up what was left of their funds.  It seems that the necessary repairs they had to do on the Firehouse and their chosen vehicle, not to mention the advertising costs and construction & upkeep of their equipment, has taken a sizable chunk out of their monetary account. If they don’t start making some revenue soon, they’re pretty much sunk.

As luck would have it, at that very moment, Janine answers a phone call at the reception desk.  And I do get a chuckle out of her ‘yes, of course they’re serious.’  It makes me wonder if they were getting a lot of prank calls after their advertisement started to air.  However, this particular phone call ends up being legit.  It turns out there’s a disturbance at the Sedgewick Hotel, and the hotel manager has decided to call in the Ghostbusters. Prompting Janine to excitedly press the alarm bell to announce the Ghostbuster’s first official call, which they respond to almost instantly, driving out to the Sedgewick Hotel in the newly-dubbed Ecto-1.  (Question- how much time has passed since Dana approached the Ghostbusters?  When she first walked in, we see Ray hard at work in fixing up the car’s multiple mechanical issues.  And now it’s apparently been repaired to full working order, complete with a new paintjob.  I find it doubtful that they could have completed all that work in only a day, so there must have been a small time jump at work here.  Also, there are two arcade games and a pinball machine in the Firehouse.  Which of the three purchased them?  Inquiring minds want to know.)

Upon arriving at the Sedgewick Hotel, Peter, Egon and Ray are approached by the hotel manager, the one who called them in.  The manager explains that the twelfth floor of the hotel has always experienced the occasional disturbance over the years, but it’s always been easy for the hotel staff to cover it up so the guests wouldn’t notice.  However, two weeks ago, the paranormal activity has intensified, which has left him no choice than to try calling in the Ghostbusters.  After the brief discussion with the manager, the Ghostbusters head to the elevators in order to head up to the twelfth floor. But first, we get a possibly dated joke where a hotel guest takes in the appearance of the Ghostbusters in their coveralls and proton packs and asks if they’re cosmonauts.  I had to look up was a cosmonaut was because I was not familiar with that term.  FYI, it’s basically the Russian equivalent of an astronaut.  Which basically means that the hotel guest was suspecting them of being Russians.  That only makes sense when you consider the fact that this movie was made during the time of the Cold War, when there was strong tension between the Soviet Union and the United States.

Moving on, as they make their way up the elevator, Egon and Ray admit that they never properly tested their equipment. Meaning this first mission is going to be a crash course, so to speak.  Of course, they basically do have their chance at testing out their proton packs when they impulsively fire off Proton Streams at a housekeeper who just happened to be passing by.  (Thankfully, she wasn’t harmed and only her cart got toasted.)   After the slight mishap, the trio decide to split up in order to cover more ground. As such, Ray is the one who comes across the ghost first. As those of you who are familiar with the franchise knows, it’s the green potato-shaped entity that will eventually be dubbed as Slimer.  (Although the creature was originally called ‘The Onionhead Ghost’ by the film crew, as the ghost was supposed to emit a particular odor.)  At the moment, Slimer is stuffing his face with the food on a room service cart.  Because Peter and Egon are out of earshot, Ray decides to try and catch Slimer himself, but his attempt only ends up spooking Slimer, who zooms off and escapes through a wall, leaving behind a bit of green ectoplasmic residue.  This results in the green ghost crossing paths with Peter.  To his credit, Peter seems to take it a little more calmly and contacts Ray over the walkie-talkie.  But before anything could be done, Slimer flies toward Peter almost menacingly, prompting Peter to scream (which is probably the most emotion we’ve seen Peter display so far. He didn’t even scream during the scene with the Library Ghost.)  By the time Ray appears on the scene, Slimer is once again gone, but Peter is lying on the ground, drenched in green ectoplasm.

At this point, Egon manages to contact them, announcing he witnessed Slimer entering a ballroom elsewhere in the hotel.  So the Ghostbusters head down the ballroom in question, instructing the manager to wait outside while they deal with the matter.  Eventually, they do manage to capture Slimer, but only after causing extensive damage to the ballroom, including destroying a rather expensive looking chandelier.  Although, this scene does contain a moment when Egon informs Ray and Peter of an important safety precaution involving their Proton Packs.  Because of the nature of the Proton Streams they use to restrain the ghost while the Ghost Trap is being set up, it is vitally important that they don’t cross the streams.  Because if they do, it would result in a total protonic reversal that would cause every cell in their bodies to explode.  Which is obviously a rather gruesome way to die.

Upon the successful capture of Slimer, the Ghostbusters exit the demolished ballroom and approach the hotel manager, seeking the payment for their services.  But the manager balks at the knowledge that they’re asking for $5,000. (Because I’m a nerd, I actually took the time to adjust this amount for inflation.  That price is equivalent to $12,326.42 now.)  At first, the manager refuses to pay that much.  Until they threaten to release Slimer back into the ballroom.  Now, on the one hand, I can appreciate that the Ghostbusters are in desperate need of funds at this point, and they need to be properly confiscated considering how expensive it is to maintain their equipment.  At the same time, they could have offered a slight discount, seeing as how the hotel is now going to have to pay for the damage to the ballroom. Still, we do get a nice moment of seeing Peter and Egon playing off each other.  If you watch carefully, you can see Egon trying to covertly signal Peter in how much to charge the hotel for trapping Slimer.

And thus begins the montage scene of the Ghostbusters doing their thing in busting the various spooks that continue popping up around the city as their popularity continues to grow, with them making the front page of newspapers, appearing in various magazines and even scoring TV interviews. (Along with brief cameos of Larry King and the now-late Casey Kasem.)  Of course, there is one moment in this montage that appears to be a dream sequence of Ray’s, in which he’s visited by a ghost lady who, despite not actually showing anything (the movie was rated PG, after all), clearly performs oral sex on him.  It’s a bit of a weird moment, to be honest.  Of course, that brief sequence was actually recycled footage from a scene that didn’t make it into the final cut.  The scene in question had the Ghostbusters investigating a haunting at the fictional Fort Detmerring.  Though knowing that doesn’t make the scene any less weird.

As the montage wraps up, we get introduced to our final main character, Winston Zeddemore.  He arrives at the Firehouse in response to an ad the Ghostbusters put out, asking for additional help.  It seems that the ghostly activity in the city has gotten to be too much for Peter, Ray and Egon to tackle on their own, and they’re hoping to get more assistance.  So Winston has decided to come by and apply for the job out of a desire to have a steady paycheck.  And because Peter and Ray are particularly exhausted over how busy they’ve been lately, they hire him on the spot upon returning from a bust.

Now, I probably should acknowledge the fact that Winston seems to get the short end of the stick among the Ghostbusters fandom, with him being regarded as the odd one out due to the fact that he doesn’t join the team until halfway through the movie and isn’t actually a scientist like the others.  There was even an episode of Stranger Things that brought this up.  But honestly, I think Winston is one of best members of the team.  Because he’s the everyday guy.  The one who pretty much gave us ordinary folks the hope that we could be Ghostbusters, too. And, as an adult, I can appreciate Winston’s whole attitude when he straight up tells Janine ‘if there's a steady paycheck in it, I'll believe anything you say.’  This is a guy who just wants a job that will help him get food on the table, and just happened to end up landing the coolest job on the planet.  That is awesome!  I wanna be Winston!

The movie then cuts to Carnegie Hall, where Dana is just getting out of work after a rehearsal. She and a fellow member of the orchestra, a male violin player who Dana later describes as one of the finest musicians in the world, are complaining about the guest conductor who oversaw the rehearsal, and how the conductor in question seemed to prefer shouting at them in German rather than actually do any real conducting.  Their conversation is cut short when Dana spots Peter a few feet away, and she goes over to talk with them.  Strangely enough, Dana seems to be rather taken with Peter now.  The last time we saw these two together, Dana seemed a bit annoyed by Peter and his unwanted advances.  But here, she seems to have warmed up to him.  Were there additional scenes that showed further interactions between the two that wound up on the cutting room floor?  Because if the movie really wanted to sell these two as the main couple, they could have really benefitted from showing them interact a little more.  While the actors do play well off each other, it seems a bit odd that Dana seemingly went from viewing Peter as an annoyance to her regarding him as a friend without showing us how she got to that point.  Granted we saw her appear a few times in the movie’s montage segment, but that was only her reacting to the various news stories about the Ghostbusters’ rising fame.

Anyway, Peter reveals he was true to his word.  Even though they’ve been busy dealing with other hauntings and whatnot, they’re still working on figuring out what caused the paranormal activity at Dana’s apartment. Their research has found some information about the name of Zuul, who was a demi-god worshiped by some various ancient cultures around 6000 BC.  He was also said to be the minion of a being called Gozer.  Of course, they’re not quite sure why Dana seems to have been targeted by Zuul and Gozer, so Peter suggests they could get together Thursday night around 9 to discuss the matter more thoroughly.  Of course, Dana sees this for what it is and knows Peter is just trying to trick her into a date.  But she ultimately agrees to the arrangement, because she is now apparently charmed by his advances now.  Not sure why, but whatever.

It then cuts back to the Firehouse, where Ray is busy showing Winston how to load a captured ghost into their custom-made Containment Unit, which basically works as a jailhouse for the imprisoned ghosts.  Meanwhile, Peter is upstairs, dealing with a visit from Walter Peck from the Environmental Protection Agency.  Basically, Peck is there to investigate the Ghostbusters and check if their operation is creating a significant impact on the environment.  As such, he wants to inspect their equipment, particularly the Containment Unit.  Ultimately, Peter refuses to comply with his demands.  Now, as someone who actually has a BS in Environmental Studies, I have to admit that…. Peck is not necessarily in the wrong here.  He’s simply doing his job in investigating the Ghostbusters and making sure they’re not releasing any toxic substances into the environment.  So I don’t fault him for what he’s wanting to do.  However, I don’t think he went about it in a good way.  Especially since he really does give a pretty big veiled threat to Peter during their conversation.  Not to mention that he seems to indirectly accuse them of purposely releasing noxious gas into the atmosphere with the intention of making people hallucinate into seeing ghosts.  Because of that, I also don’t blame Peter for refusing to comply with Peck’s demands. If Walter Peck had just been a bit more professional and respectful about his intentions, things might have turned out differently.  After Walter Peck storms out, Peter rejoins Egon, Ray and Winston down in the basement, where the three of them inform him of some fresh concern of Egon’s.  The Containment Unit, it seems, is getting close to maximum capacity due to all the ghosts they’ve been catching.  To make things even more concerning, the data he’s collected from their various missions throughout the city suggests that something much bigger is on the horizon.  Which he explains with a Twinkie analogy.

However, I have to pause for a moment to really look at these last few scenes back-to-back.  This is probably a nitpick, but the continuity of these scenes seem a bit off.  If you look carefully, you see that Peter is wearing his Ghostbusters jumpsuit during his meeting with Walter Peck.  And that the jumpsuit is stained with ectoplasmic goop.  Which is exactly what he was wearing when he and Ray returned to the Firehouse during Winston’s job interview with Janine.  So, taking that into account, it seems like the correct order of events would be 1) Winston being hired into the Ghostbusters, 2) the meeting with Walter Peck, 3) Ray instructing Winston on how to operate the containment unit and then 4) Egon’s Twinkie analogy. Based on the characters’ wardrobe throughout those scenes, it seems like they all occurred simultaneously. Of course, that would put into question where Peter and Dana’s meeting outside Carnegie Hall would fall on the movie’s timeline.  Especially since Winston later will state that, as of the movie’s climax, he’s been with the company for a few weeks.  So, since the climax really starts to kick off on the night of Peter and Dana’s Thursday date, it makes sense for the Carnegie Hall scene to come after Winston was hired.  But if they had aired the scenes in the proper order, we wouldn’t have gotten that dramatic cut that the movie gave us.  Because the way the movie plays out, we immediately cut from Peter saying ‘what about the Twinkie?’ to the top of Dana’s apartment building, where a pair of stone statues of demonic creatures (known as Terror Dogs) start to break open, revealing there are real Terror Dogs encased inside the statures.  Apparently, they’ve been lying dormant until the opportune moment and are now being unleashed.  (Which is that big thing that Egon saw coming on the horizon).

As the Terror Dogs are emerging from their stone statues, Dana arrives home in order to get ready for her date with Peter at nine.  By coincidence, her neighbor, Louis, is also holding his party on the same night and, despite Dana’s best efforts at sneaking past his door, he somehow hears her moving down the hall and comes out to greet her.  Louis is crestfallen when he hears that Dana scheduled a date on the night of his party, but quickly takes in in stride, suggesting that Dana can bring Peter to the party, too.  (Dude, take the hint.)  Dana, more to appease him than anything, states that they’ll try to make an appearance. However, it doesn’t really matter either way.  Because when Dana returns to her apartment and starts to get ready, demonic hands burst out of the chair she’s sitting in and forcibly hold her down so the Terror Dog known as Zuul can possess her.  I don’t have to tell you that it is a really chilling scene to witness.  To this day, I cannot sleep with the closet light shining through the door gaps, and I blame it on this scene.

While Zuul is possessing Dana across the hall, Louis is having some paranormal issues of his own. It turns out that the second Terror Dog, this one named Vinz Clortho, has targeted Louis as his chosen vessel. Because both Terror Dogs need to possess a human vessel in order to prepare the way for their master, Gozer. Not really sure why Louis was selected, however.  Sure, he’s the only other character we’ve really been introduced to so far, outside of the actual Ghostbuster crew (and I’m including Janine in that).  But to our knowledge, Louis didn’t experience any sort of paranormal warning the way Dana did with the eggs cooking on the counter and her refrigerator becoming a portal to the demonic realm.  Unless the running gag of Louis constantly getting himself locked out of his apartment was his paranormal ‘warning.’

Anyway, Vinz disrupts Louis’ party, terrifying the guests while Louis runs out of his apartment, prompting Vinz to give chase.  (Is that why Louis got selected?  Because he was the only one who ran out of the apartment? Do Terror Dogs hunt by movement?)  Despite Louis’ best efforts to evade the demonic creature, Vinz eventually corners him outside Tavern on the Green, the well-known restaurant in Central Park.

This scene, admittedly, confuses me to this day.  When Louis is cornered and subsequently possessed by Vinz, he is in full view of the people eating at the restaurant.  But even though they all look up when they hear Louis screaming outside, they immediately go back to their meals as if nothing happened.  Did they not see Vinz standing outside with Louis? Was Vinz invisible to everyone except Louis?  That doesn’t make much sense, since Louis’ party guests, his elderly neighbor, the apartment building’s doorman and the number of people who happened to be driving by clearly saw Vinz as well.  So was this supposed to be a bit of social commentary about how New Yorkers often don’t lift a finger to help people in distress? Because I can see the reasoning behind such a thing.  After all, there was that famous news story about the homeless man bleeding to death on the ground and how nobody stopped to help him.  And there was a similar story back in 1964, when a 28-year-old woman was raped and killed while at least 38 bystanders didn’t bother to intervene or respond to her screams.  Even so, you’d think that someone in that restaurant would have reacted to the sight of Vinz.

Back at the apartment building, Peter has just arrived for his date with Dana.  While he does react to       the presence of the police who have been called out to investigate the disturbance at Louis’ party (as people had mistook the Terror Dog for a cougar), he makes his way to Dana’s apartment.   Unfortunately, by the time he arrives, Dana has already been possessed by Zuul, and is now wearing a rather provocative orange dress.  (Can’t see Dana having something like that in her closet based on what we’ve previously seen her wearing, so I’m wondering where that dress came from.)  Despite Peter’s best efforts at reaching out to Dana’s consciousness, Zuul’s hold on her mind is too strong.  Which of course leads to the iconic ‘there is no Dana, only Zuul’ line.  Though it’s important to note that Zuul refers to herself as ‘the Gatekeeper,’ and that she’s waiting for ‘the Keymaster.’  I’m sure we all know the sexual undertones of those monikers, so there’s no need for me to comment on it.

Meanwhile, Louis, now possessed by Vinz, has been picked up by the police because he’s been causing a bit of a scene in Central Park with his search for ‘the Gatekeeper.’  But since the cops aren’t sure what to do with him due to his erratic behavior, the police captain has decided to bring him to the Ghostbusters.  (By the way, I love Janine’s immediate response when she opens the door to find the cops standing on the doorstop.  This woman is awesome.)  Egon, upon seeing how the possessed Louis is making the PKE meter spike, agrees to bring him inside the Firehouse, where we get this awesome effect of Vinz’ true form appear on an infrared monitor.  Upon being questioned by Egon, Vinz explains that he’s waiting for a sign from Gozer the Traveler, who will come in a pre-chosen form.  Janine, growing a bit worried by what she’s hearing Vinz say, briefly pulls Egon aside to voice her concerns, stating she’s got a terrible feeling that something awful is going to happen to him.

The tender moment between the two is broken when Peter calls the Firehouse to inform Egon of Dana’s possession by Zuul.  At present, Peter has managed to knock Zuul out by injecting Dana’s body with 300 cc of thorozine.  (Does Peter normally carry around thorozine?  Particularly when he’s planning on going out on a date?  Do I even want to know?)  Egon instructs Peter to return to the Firehouse straight away, also warning him that they cannot let Zuul and Vinz meet.

Elsewhere, Ray and Winston are off in the Ecto-1, apparently coming back from a call.  Strangely, Winston is still wearing his civilian clothes while Ray is in his Ghostbusters jumpsuit.  As previously stated, Winston is supposed to have been with the Ghostbusters for a few weeks by this point.  So where’s his jumpsuit?  How long does it take the uniform store to design a Ghostbuster jumpsuit?  Anyway, Ray is busy studying the blueprints for Dana’s apartment building, currently unaware of what happened with Dana and Lewis, and is taken aback by how the top of the apartment complex was constructed by a magnesium-tungsten alloy, which is apparently very peculiar.  Winston, seemingly out of nowhere, interrupts Ray’s musings to bring up God and Jesus.  However, the reason behind Winston’s choice of subject becomes clear when he asks Ray if he remembers what the Bible said about the last days, when the dead would rise from the grave.  To this, Ray states he remembers Revelations 7:12 and proceeds to recite a Bible verse.  However, if you actually look at a Bible, you’ll see that the verse Ray recites is NOT Revelations 7:12.  It’s actually Revelations 6:12.  You got the wrong chapter, Ray, but points for trying.  Either way, Ray basically shrugs and states all ancient religions have their own myths about the end of the world.  But his mood shifts when Winston points out that perhaps the reason why they’ve been so busy lately is because the dead HAVE been rising from the grave.  While this particular scene doesn’t really contribute much to the plot, it is still a good scene, and one of my favorites in the film.

Back at the Firehouse, Egon is awaiting the return of his fellow Ghostbusters and performing a few tests on Vinz while he’s waiting.  Because of course Egon would want to gather some data on the possessed Louis. Unfortunately, that’s when Walter Peck returns.  This time, he’s brought in the cops and a worker from Con Edison.  Janine does her best to stop them, pointing out that she knows they can’t barge onto the premises without a writ or warrant (which is further indication that Janine is highly intelligent and not just a pretty face), but Peck counters her denial of entry by showing he does have a warrant.  Upon storming into the basement with his reinforcements in tow, Peck demands that the Containment Unit gets switched off.  Egon urgently warns the Con Edison man against turning off the protection grid, as does Peter when he arrives on the scene.  However, Peck is persistent and forces the Con Edison man to comply with his order, despite the Con Ed Man’s hesitations.

Of course, the moment the Containment Unit’s protection grid is switched off, alarms start blaring, and everyone is forced to run out of the Firehouse before the Containment Unit explodes with such force, it blasts a hole into the Firehouse’s roof.  The instant this happens, Zuul/Dana snaps awake. Because this was apparently the sign she and Vinz/Louis was waiting for- the release of all the ghosts the Ghostbusters had previously caught.

As a crowd gathers around the damaged Firehouse, Ray and Winston return back from their bust.  As such, they are present when Peck angrily charges forward, demanding that the cops arrest them for being in criminal violation of the Environmental Protection Act.  To Egon’s enragement, Peck even tries to blame them for the explosion.  Which was really a jerk move on Peck’s part.  While I won’t deny that he was just doing his job at first, it was his refusal to listen to Egon and Peter’s multiple warnings that make him lose my support. They TOLD him repeatedly that shutting off the Containment Unit’s protection grid would have led to disastrous reproductions.  But he refused to listen to them out of what I can only imagine was the result of him having a chip on his shoulder because Peter ‘insulted’ him.  To make matters worse, Vinz/Louis manages to slip away amidst the chaos.  And throughout the city, the newly released ghosts proceed to wreak havoc.

Sometime later, the Ghostbusters are confined to a rather large jail cell, which they’re sharing with some other prison inmates.  I admit I don’t know much about prisons, but… do jails often have cells large enough to hold up to ten people?  Regardless, Egon and Ray are busy studying the blueprints of Dana and Louis’ apartment building, commenting on how bizarre the structural framework is.  Long story short, it turns out that the building was actually designed to be a super-conductive antenna designed specifically to pull in and concentrate spiritual energy.  Egon then goes into storytelling mode, explaining to his compatriots (as well as the other inmates, who also seem interested) that he has previously discovered that the building’s architect was a man named Ivo Shandor. In 1920, following WWI, Ivo had decided that society no longer deserved to survive, so he formed a secret society.  He and his many followers began to worship the ancient god Gozer.  And, atop the high-rise that would eventually become Dana and Louis’ apartment building, they conducted many rituals that were intended to bring about the end of the world.  Now, it seems like the rituals they performed might actually succeed.

Clearly, this is really bad, and the Ghostbusters know they have to do something about it.  Even though Winston seems doubtful that they convince a judge to believe their tale and let them go.  Thankfully, luck is on their side, and a jail guard, portrayed by the same actor who played Carl Winslow on Family Matters and Sgt. Al Powell in the Die Hard movies (that man loves playing law enforcement, doesn’t he?), appears to announce that the mayor has asked for them.  So the Ghostbusters are all brought before Mayor Lenny.  And not a moment too soon, as time is running out- Vince/Louis and Zuul/Dana have already found their way to each other.

When the Ghostbusters arrive at Mayor Lenny’s office, he’s already in a meeting with his advisers, discussing all the turmoil that’s been going on because of the escaped ghosts now running amok.  Of course, Walter Peck is also there, once again accusing the Ghostbusters of being con artists who have been making people believe they’re seeing ghosts by releasing a hallucinogenic gas into the air.  Thankfully, Mayor Lenny’s advisors are skeptical of Peck’s accusations.  The Fire Commissioner states he has no explanation for what he witnessed when the explosion occurred at the Firehouse, despite seeing every form of combustion known to man. And the Police Commissioner points out there’s no rational explanation behind the walls of the 53rd precinct bleeding.  Eventually, the Ghostbusters present their case to Mayor Lenny, warning him that if they don’t act quickly, a disaster of biblical proportions will occur.  The Mayor is ultimately convinced to give the Ghostbusters a chance when Peter presents a wager of sorts.  He tells Mayor Lenny that if they’re wrong, they will willingly go to prison.  But if they’re right, and they’re allowed the chance to stop Gozer, then the city will view Mayor Lenny as the man who helped save the city by not preventing the Ghostbusters from doing their job.  Like most politicians, Mayor Lenny is all for the option that could get him re-elected.

And so the Ghostbusters are off to the Ivo Shandor building, complete with a police escort.  Only now Winston is finally sporting a Ghostbuster jumpsuit.  That was convenient timing.  Did his jumpsuit arrive at the exact moment they returned to the Firehouse to pick up their Proton Packs and whatnot?  Either way, upon their arrival, a sudden earthquake erupts, breaking up the street and swallowing up the Ghostbusters.  I guess Gozer sensed the Ghostbusters arrival and, recognizing them as a threat, attempted to get rid of them.  Somehow, they survive falling into the gaping hole and manage to enter the building.  But the elevator is apparently out of order as they’re forced to climb up the stairs to reach Dana’s apartment up on the 22nd floor.  When they do reach the apartment, they find the place in a shambles, as the whole side of the building exploded during the earlier sequence where the escaped ghosts were terrorizing the city.  Although, they do locate a staircase that leads them up to the roof, where the Temple of Gozer now resides.

It’s too late, however, as Zuul/Dana and Vinz/Louis have already started the ritual to summon Gozer. (It’s somewhat implied they had sex on a stone alter).  The Ghostbusters arrive on the scene just in time for the pair to complete their transformation, shedding the appearance of Dana and Louis and becoming full Terror Dogs, and they can only watch as the temple doors open, revealing Gozer in the flesh.  After another iconic moment where Ray attempts to instruct Gozer to leave only to get blasted backwards for not identifying himself as a god, the Ghostbusters attempt to take Gozer out with their Proton Packs.  To their astonishment, Gozer vanishes when they fire their Proton Streams at the alter Gozer is standing on.  For a few seconds, it looks like they succeeded in defeating Gozer, but of course it’s not that easy.  As Vinz stated earlier in the movie, Gozer typically takes a pre-chosen form before beginning his destruction.  And that proves to be the case here, as a disembodied voice instructs the Ghostbusters to choose the form of the destructor.

Peter, stepping up to the plate, takes the initiative.  Realizing they’ve only got one shot at tricking Gozer into taking a form they can easily overpower, he encourages his teammates to clear their heads so they can think of something.  But unfortunately, not quick enough, as a thought has already entered Ray’s head- Mr. Stay Puft the mascot of an in-universe brand of marshmallows.  A minute later, a 50-foot-tall Mr. Stay Puft manifests down in the city streets below and begins making its way toward them. In order to try and stop Mr. Stay Puft, the Ghostbusters attempt to fire their Proton Packs at the creature, but this only makes Mr. Stay Puft angry, and it begins to climb up the side of the building, King Kong style.  So now the Ghostbusters are in a bit of a tight spot.  Obviously, they have to defeat Gozer’s chosen form, but how?

That’s when Egon gets his last-ditch idea.  He suggests, since the door to Gozer’s temple swings both ways, perhaps they can close it and therefore put a stop to all of this by reversing the particle flow through the gate.  Unfortunately, the only way to accomplish this is by crossing their Proton Streams- the very thing Egon warned them against doing on their first mission as Ghostbusters.  Peter is quick to remind him of this, pointing out how that plan would put them all in danger.  But he quickly shifts gears and becomes in full agreement with the plan when Egon suggests there’s a slim chance they’ll survive.

Egon’s plan ultimately works, with the four Proton Streams merging into one big one that helps close the gate.  This results in the Temple of Gozer exploding, with Mr. Stay Puft getting incinerated and melted marshmallow raining down onto the streets below, with one particularly large mound of it falling right onto Walter Peck.  (There are some deleted scenes that show Peck was still trying to get the Ghostbusters arrested, even after seeing Mr. Stay Puft.)

As the smoke clears atop the building, we see the Ghostbusters have all miraculously survived the explosion.  Though they’re all drenched with marshmallow fluff.  Except for Peter, who only got some in his hair.  How he accomplished that is anyone’s guess.  As the Ghostbusters check up on each other to make sure they got through the ordeal in one piece, Peter steps away to take in the charred remains of Zuul and Vinz, who were also consumed in the explosion. Ray, realizing that Peter’s thoughts are of Dana and how she had transformed into the creature, offers his condolences.  Of course, the movie didn’t want to go out on such a depressing note, and it’s quickly shown that Dana and Louis both survived as well, as they slowly break out of the petrified remains of the Terror Dogs, a bit battered but still alive and well.

And so the movie ends, with the Ghostbusters emerging triumphantly to the cheers of the crowd of New Yorkers.  Peter even gets to share a kiss with Dana in full view of everyone.  Which would be awesome if the movie had actually shown us more of this pairing’s development.  Then again, the fact that Peter seemed particularly upset when it looked as if Dana had died does suggest he does genuinely care about her.  So I guess I can buy this kiss.  And we also do get one final scene with Egon and Janine, as the latter had actually came out to the site of the final battle and embraces Egon upon seeing him unharmed.

Dana then gets to essentially ride off into the sunset with the Ghostbusters in the Ecto-1.  Which is a bit odd, since we see Louis is escorted away by some Red Cross employees.  What’s with that?  Why does Dana get to ride off in the Ecto-1 while Louis has to stay behind to receive medical care?  Dana went through the exact same ordeal as Louis.  So if Louis has to get checked over at the hospital, then Dana should be, too, right?  Especially since she was the one who seemed to be the most disoriented after she was freed from the petrified remains of Zuul.

Despite the few issues that arise with the movie, I still enjoy it.  It’s easy to see why Ghostbusters took the world by storm. While I wouldn’t say it’s a laugh-out-loud comedy, the jokes they work in are really smart and clever.  The effects are impressive, even by today’s standards.  The ghosts featured in the film still look amazing (excluding this one moment when Vinz is running across the street.  I admit something looked off at that moment).  And there are so many iconic lines that I’m pretty sure this movie is right up there with Star Wars in terms of quotability.

In fact, my only real complaint is the character of Peter and how we never got any indication on why he even got involved in parapsychology like Ray and Egon in the first place.  Instead, he comes across as a bit of a jerk who is only in it for the money, and to pick up good-looking women.  Admittedly, that seems to be a trend of Bill Murray- playing a jerk character.  (I’m looking at you, Groundhog Day and Scrooged.)  But at least with those movies, Bill Murry’s character underwent a character arc, and by the end of the movie, he had stopped being a jerk.  But that’s not the case with Peter.  While he didn’t display any of his jerk-ish qualities by the end of the movie, we never saw any real indication that he’d undergone some sort of character development.  I know no one had much in the way of character development in this movie, but the point still stands.  It just would have been nice for the movie to give us some indication why we were supposed to root for him.  Because the only thing we really got was that he had a thing for Dana, and that’s it. All the other characters are all very likable, though, so that does help balance out any negativity Peter’s presence might have caused.

One thing that stuck out to me while watching this movie now, apart from the presence of the 80s-style technology (case in point that huge 80s cellphone a movie extra was using in one scene), was all the product placement that cropped up throughout the movie.  As I watched this movie, I saw appearances of Cheez-it crackers, Coca-Cola, Perrier, Oscar-Mayer bologna, Wise Potato Chips and Hi-ho crackers (which are now called Ritz crackers).  And, of course, Twinkies.  I might be wrong, considering I don’t normally watch for this sort of thing, but I don’t think we generally see this much product placement in movies coming out today.  So seeing that many recognizable brands was quite interesting to me.

That pretty wraps up my review of the original Ghostbusters movie. I’ll be sure to review its sequel, Ghostbusters II on a later date.  But first, I think I’ll look at the episodes of the movie’s animated spin-off, The Real Ghostbusters.  Even though the series technically takes place in a separate continuity, I do remember there were a few callbacks to the events of the movie, so that should count for something.

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